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section7mfuSorry this is dreadfully late.
“Are you familiar with this incident, Mr. Solo?”
Mr. Waverly spun the table, sending a file around to Napoleon. A newspaper clipping rested on top. The photo captured the grim remains of a Brooklyn rowhouse, the headline announcing one person killed.
“I read the story. A gas line explosion, wasn't it? How does that relate to UNCLE?”
“Because it was not a gas line that exploded. It was this.” Mr. Waverly projected an image on the screen. It appeared to be a small scrap of colorful, charred silk.
Napoleon wrinkled his nose. “Plastic explosive? THRUSH?”
“Their technology, at the very least. The victim was working as a busboy at the 21 Club. It appears that he stole one of the scarves meant as an annual Christmas gift to their regular diners. Unfortunately for him, it was not an ordinary scarf.”
“I presume we’ve notified 21.”
“Yes, of course. Our people have examined the entire consignment of scarves for this year. All perfectly innocent. It appears only one had been exchanged.”
Napoleon flipped through a few pages of the file. “So, an attempt at random chaos or an attack on a particular person?”
“The scarf in question was slated be given to Mrs. Nikolos Constantinides.”
“Of Constantinides Shipping? Why target her?”
“This may provide your answer.” Mr. Waverly pressed a button, and the projected image changed to a newspaper photo of an elegant blonde poised under the awning of La Côte Basque.
“Narcissus Darling,” Napoleon announced, an appreciative smile curving his lips.
“Quite right, Mr. Solo. She married the heir to Constantinides Shipping about a year ago. Intelligence has been keeping tabs on her, but all reports indicate that she has retired from THRUSH."
"THRUSH isn't usually in the habit of letting members walk away."
"In this instance they had no choice. Shortly before her wedding, Mrs. Constantinides sent a message to both UNCLE and THRUSH Central. If anything happened to her, it said, UNCLE would receive a file revealing the details of THRUSH operatives around the world. It was possible she was bluffing, of course, but the threat seems to have kept her safe so far."
"Until now. I gather you want me to make contact with Mrs. Constantinides," he said, staring at the screen with a cocked head and a distracted smile.
"Yes. She needs to know that her security is not as assured as she hoped. I trust you can accomplish this without a scandal in the society pages."
Napoleon tore his eyes from the screen and met his chief’s pointed gaze. "Ahh, yes, of course, sir."
Napoleon smiled at the jockeys, their rings festooned with greenery and holiday ribbon, before descending the steps to 21. “Hello, Fred,” he said to the doorman and passed through the opened portal into the lobby.
"Mr. Solo, glad to see you today,” the man behind the reception desk said as Napoleon removed his overcoat and passed it to a waiting lackey. "Will you be joining your aunt's party?" His head tilted slightly to indicate the stairs leading up to the main dining room.
“Not at the moment, Harry, though I'll pay my respects before I go. I'm meeting someone in the lounge. When Mrs. Constantinides arrives, would you please let her know I'm here?”
“Certainly. Shall I have a Gibson and canapés brought to you?” he asked, already signaling a second lackey to alert the bar.
“Yes, thank you.” Napoleon moved into the lounge, pleased to find a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace. His drink and hors d’œuvres arrived in moments, and he settled in comfortably, watching through the window as a light snow dusted the iron railings. From the bar came the aromas of cigar smoke and tarragon and the sound of the lunch crowd singing carols along to the Salvation Army band.
Snug in his chair, Napoleon enjoyed the fire and food while keeping one eye on the front doors. At the sight of Narcissus, sleekly sophisticated in a Balenciaga coat and white gloves, he sat up straighter and made a minute adjustment to his cuffs. She nodded regally as Harry at reception gestured to the lounge, but turned and headed for the ladies cloakroom. Napoleon waited several more minutes until she approached. A chic black day dress skimmed her curves, and she looked as though the 21 was the only thing that would tempt her across 5th Avenue.
Napoleon rose as she approached. "Mrs. Constantinides."
"Napoleon Solo." She rested her hands lightly on his lapels, the perfectly manicured nails pale against his dark jacket. She laid two air kisses near his cheeks, then descended gracefully into the chair across from his.
"My felicitations. Marriage becomes you," Napoleon said, taking his own seat.
"Fifty million dollars becomes me," she replied in her lilting tones and smiled serenely. "I admit, I hadn't expected to see you again."
"Well, I'm delighted to see you. You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He smiled charmingly. "Do you miss the old life at all?"
"One hardly knows one's left it. Society life, in its way, is far more ruthless than THRUSH. We just slay each other in less obvious ways." She removed a compact from an Hermès handbag and checked her lipstick. "For instance, this luncheon of mine today has a theme. Each of the women coming has slept with my husband. After today, they'll be quite sure that will never happen again."
"And what does your husband think of your former career?"
"I told him not to think of it, so he doesn't. Niko worships me, and his reverence is mixed with just the perfect touch of fear." She snapped the compact closed and tucked it away. "Besides, I don't believe a husband should know too much about his wife's past. It ruins the mystery."
"I've heard you put more than a touch of fear into THRUSH Central when you retired."
Her eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "And they'll take me seriously, if they know what's good for them."
"I think they mean to test your threat." He pulled a photo from inside his jacket and handed it to her. She looked at it briefly, then raised her brows at him. "It's a fake of the 21 scarf for this Christmas, meant to be delivered to you."
"So nice that they're not green. I look terrible in green." She handed the picture back.
"Not as terrible as the busboy who stole it. The explosion demolished his entire house."
She shrugged, a graceful flex of her shoulders. “One does run such risks embarking on a life of crime.”
A crease appeared between Napoleon’s brows. "Narcissus, I came to warn you that you’re in danger. If they could get to the scarves, they could get to you in other ways. Say, your husband's private stock."
"If they have tampered with the Château de Puligny-Montrachet, it will simply be the loss of a terribly handsome sommelier and a rather good bourgogne blanc." She smiled placidly at Napoleon's frown. "Don't worry, Napoleon. That's not likely to happen. I don't believe this is the work of THRUSH Central at all."
"Then who would you say is responsible?"
"I'd say it’s Victoria Marton, Victor's daughter, evidently taking a page from daddy's book. She married some little nobody of a princeling, and now she thinks that entitles her to an invitation on the Narcissus. Our yacht,” she clarified at his look of confusion. “She's never been THRUSH, not properly anyway. Pity, as she shows a real flair for the work."
"So this is a society squabble?”
"I told you we were ruthless. And I suppose one really must take Victoria in hand. There are much more subtle and refined ways of destroying your adversaries."
She smoothed an errant lock of blonde hair back in place. “Perhaps it's best to invite her after all. And I believe an introduction to Truman is in order.”
“The president?”
“No, the writer. Everyone who’s anyone adores him, but something in his eyes tells me at the first opportunity he’ll knife us all in the back. I saw it often enough with THRUSH to know the look. Yes, I will see to it that Truman and Victoria become very good friends.”
“Are you certain about this? I'd hate for your next photo to be in the obituaries.”
“Don't worry, Napoleon,” she trilled. “Everything will be taken care of.” She gazed at him in consideration. “Would you care to join my luncheon party? I could give you away as a consolation prize.”
“Ahh, as tempting as that sounds, Narcissus, I have to decline.”
“Too bad. I know a gentleman who makes an excellent living on the arms of these ladies, and you’re much more handsome than he is.”
He grinned. “You flatter me, but I think I’ll stay with my current career.”
“As you wish.” She consulted a slim platinum watch, diamonds winking from its facing. At an elegant wave of her hand, an Escort appeared to convey her upstairs.
She extended the hand to Napoleon, and he kissed it. “Goodbye, Napoleon. I doubt we'll meet again. Unless you change your mind about joining our side." She smiled at his raised his brow. "The Upper East Side."
He gave an answering smile. “Goodbye, Narcissus.”
In the conference room a week later, Napoleon flipped through a trade paper and smiled. The WWD had captured a photo of Victoria Marton and Truman Capote exiting The Colony. Narcissus walked behind them, smiling contentedly.
“Oh, and these arrived as well.” Mr. Waverly spun a box to Napoleon. He lifted the lid and drew out a silk handkerchief. An abstract pattern of a globe overlaid a blue and yellow background.
“It seems someone commissioned Ray Strauss to do a limited run of this design. There are scarves and handkerchiefs, one for everyone in the building.”
“Narcissus?” Napoleon asked, testing how the handkerchief looked in the pocket.
“Presumably. I must say, it’s disturbing how Mrs. Constantinides remains so well-informed. I think Intelligence had best continue monitoring her activities, at least for the foreseeable future.”
--------
Much of the material for this story came from the article Here's to the Ladies Who Lunched!.
“Are you familiar with this incident, Mr. Solo?”
Mr. Waverly spun the table, sending a file around to Napoleon. A newspaper clipping rested on top. The photo captured the grim remains of a Brooklyn rowhouse, the headline announcing one person killed.
“I read the story. A gas line explosion, wasn't it? How does that relate to UNCLE?”
“Because it was not a gas line that exploded. It was this.” Mr. Waverly projected an image on the screen. It appeared to be a small scrap of colorful, charred silk.
Napoleon wrinkled his nose. “Plastic explosive? THRUSH?”
“Their technology, at the very least. The victim was working as a busboy at the 21 Club. It appears that he stole one of the scarves meant as an annual Christmas gift to their regular diners. Unfortunately for him, it was not an ordinary scarf.”
“I presume we’ve notified 21.”
“Yes, of course. Our people have examined the entire consignment of scarves for this year. All perfectly innocent. It appears only one had been exchanged.”
Napoleon flipped through a few pages of the file. “So, an attempt at random chaos or an attack on a particular person?”
“The scarf in question was slated be given to Mrs. Nikolos Constantinides.”
“Of Constantinides Shipping? Why target her?”
“This may provide your answer.” Mr. Waverly pressed a button, and the projected image changed to a newspaper photo of an elegant blonde poised under the awning of La Côte Basque.
“Narcissus Darling,” Napoleon announced, an appreciative smile curving his lips.
“Quite right, Mr. Solo. She married the heir to Constantinides Shipping about a year ago. Intelligence has been keeping tabs on her, but all reports indicate that she has retired from THRUSH."
"THRUSH isn't usually in the habit of letting members walk away."
"In this instance they had no choice. Shortly before her wedding, Mrs. Constantinides sent a message to both UNCLE and THRUSH Central. If anything happened to her, it said, UNCLE would receive a file revealing the details of THRUSH operatives around the world. It was possible she was bluffing, of course, but the threat seems to have kept her safe so far."
"Until now. I gather you want me to make contact with Mrs. Constantinides," he said, staring at the screen with a cocked head and a distracted smile.
"Yes. She needs to know that her security is not as assured as she hoped. I trust you can accomplish this without a scandal in the society pages."
Napoleon tore his eyes from the screen and met his chief’s pointed gaze. "Ahh, yes, of course, sir."
Napoleon smiled at the jockeys, their rings festooned with greenery and holiday ribbon, before descending the steps to 21. “Hello, Fred,” he said to the doorman and passed through the opened portal into the lobby.
"Mr. Solo, glad to see you today,” the man behind the reception desk said as Napoleon removed his overcoat and passed it to a waiting lackey. "Will you be joining your aunt's party?" His head tilted slightly to indicate the stairs leading up to the main dining room.
“Not at the moment, Harry, though I'll pay my respects before I go. I'm meeting someone in the lounge. When Mrs. Constantinides arrives, would you please let her know I'm here?”
“Certainly. Shall I have a Gibson and canapés brought to you?” he asked, already signaling a second lackey to alert the bar.
“Yes, thank you.” Napoleon moved into the lounge, pleased to find a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace. His drink and hors d’œuvres arrived in moments, and he settled in comfortably, watching through the window as a light snow dusted the iron railings. From the bar came the aromas of cigar smoke and tarragon and the sound of the lunch crowd singing carols along to the Salvation Army band.
Snug in his chair, Napoleon enjoyed the fire and food while keeping one eye on the front doors. At the sight of Narcissus, sleekly sophisticated in a Balenciaga coat and white gloves, he sat up straighter and made a minute adjustment to his cuffs. She nodded regally as Harry at reception gestured to the lounge, but turned and headed for the ladies cloakroom. Napoleon waited several more minutes until she approached. A chic black day dress skimmed her curves, and she looked as though the 21 was the only thing that would tempt her across 5th Avenue.
Napoleon rose as she approached. "Mrs. Constantinides."
"Napoleon Solo." She rested her hands lightly on his lapels, the perfectly manicured nails pale against his dark jacket. She laid two air kisses near his cheeks, then descended gracefully into the chair across from his.
"My felicitations. Marriage becomes you," Napoleon said, taking his own seat.
"Fifty million dollars becomes me," she replied in her lilting tones and smiled serenely. "I admit, I hadn't expected to see you again."
"Well, I'm delighted to see you. You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He smiled charmingly. "Do you miss the old life at all?"
"One hardly knows one's left it. Society life, in its way, is far more ruthless than THRUSH. We just slay each other in less obvious ways." She removed a compact from an Hermès handbag and checked her lipstick. "For instance, this luncheon of mine today has a theme. Each of the women coming has slept with my husband. After today, they'll be quite sure that will never happen again."
"And what does your husband think of your former career?"
"I told him not to think of it, so he doesn't. Niko worships me, and his reverence is mixed with just the perfect touch of fear." She snapped the compact closed and tucked it away. "Besides, I don't believe a husband should know too much about his wife's past. It ruins the mystery."
"I've heard you put more than a touch of fear into THRUSH Central when you retired."
Her eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "And they'll take me seriously, if they know what's good for them."
"I think they mean to test your threat." He pulled a photo from inside his jacket and handed it to her. She looked at it briefly, then raised her brows at him. "It's a fake of the 21 scarf for this Christmas, meant to be delivered to you."
"So nice that they're not green. I look terrible in green." She handed the picture back.
"Not as terrible as the busboy who stole it. The explosion demolished his entire house."
She shrugged, a graceful flex of her shoulders. “One does run such risks embarking on a life of crime.”
A crease appeared between Napoleon’s brows. "Narcissus, I came to warn you that you’re in danger. If they could get to the scarves, they could get to you in other ways. Say, your husband's private stock."
"If they have tampered with the Château de Puligny-Montrachet, it will simply be the loss of a terribly handsome sommelier and a rather good bourgogne blanc." She smiled placidly at Napoleon's frown. "Don't worry, Napoleon. That's not likely to happen. I don't believe this is the work of THRUSH Central at all."
"Then who would you say is responsible?"
"I'd say it’s Victoria Marton, Victor's daughter, evidently taking a page from daddy's book. She married some little nobody of a princeling, and now she thinks that entitles her to an invitation on the Narcissus. Our yacht,” she clarified at his look of confusion. “She's never been THRUSH, not properly anyway. Pity, as she shows a real flair for the work."
"So this is a society squabble?”
"I told you we were ruthless. And I suppose one really must take Victoria in hand. There are much more subtle and refined ways of destroying your adversaries."
She smoothed an errant lock of blonde hair back in place. “Perhaps it's best to invite her after all. And I believe an introduction to Truman is in order.”
“The president?”
“No, the writer. Everyone who’s anyone adores him, but something in his eyes tells me at the first opportunity he’ll knife us all in the back. I saw it often enough with THRUSH to know the look. Yes, I will see to it that Truman and Victoria become very good friends.”
“Are you certain about this? I'd hate for your next photo to be in the obituaries.”
“Don't worry, Napoleon,” she trilled. “Everything will be taken care of.” She gazed at him in consideration. “Would you care to join my luncheon party? I could give you away as a consolation prize.”
“Ahh, as tempting as that sounds, Narcissus, I have to decline.”
“Too bad. I know a gentleman who makes an excellent living on the arms of these ladies, and you’re much more handsome than he is.”
He grinned. “You flatter me, but I think I’ll stay with my current career.”
“As you wish.” She consulted a slim platinum watch, diamonds winking from its facing. At an elegant wave of her hand, an Escort appeared to convey her upstairs.
She extended the hand to Napoleon, and he kissed it. “Goodbye, Napoleon. I doubt we'll meet again. Unless you change your mind about joining our side." She smiled at his raised his brow. "The Upper East Side."
He gave an answering smile. “Goodbye, Narcissus.”
In the conference room a week later, Napoleon flipped through a trade paper and smiled. The WWD had captured a photo of Victoria Marton and Truman Capote exiting The Colony. Narcissus walked behind them, smiling contentedly.
“Oh, and these arrived as well.” Mr. Waverly spun a box to Napoleon. He lifted the lid and drew out a silk handkerchief. An abstract pattern of a globe overlaid a blue and yellow background.
“It seems someone commissioned Ray Strauss to do a limited run of this design. There are scarves and handkerchiefs, one for everyone in the building.”
“Narcissus?” Napoleon asked, testing how the handkerchief looked in the pocket.
“Presumably. I must say, it’s disturbing how Mrs. Constantinides remains so well-informed. I think Intelligence had best continue monitoring her activities, at least for the foreseeable future.”
--------
Much of the material for this story came from the article Here's to the Ladies Who Lunched!.
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Date: 2015-12-18 09:59 pm (UTC)Well thought, the last touch about the Strauss commission.
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Date: 2015-12-18 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-18 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-18 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-18 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-18 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-19 12:18 am (UTC)This begs to be continued! Brava!
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Date: 2015-12-19 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-19 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-12-20 12:20 am (UTC)