THE CINDERFELLA AFFAIR -- Act III
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section7mfuAnd here we go with Act III.
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Act III: …if the shoe fits…
April arrived in Nascoste with way too many of those showers that supposedly hold the promise of May flowers. Rain descended upon the little island nation for ten straight days, sometimes in sheeting downpours and sometimes in less heavy but nonetheless continuous storms. The dreary weather robbed Napoleon of his sailing outings on the Adriatic, making contact with U.N.C.L.E. more difficult for him to manage and thus more sporadic. Finally the eleventh day of April dawned clear and welcomely sunny.
As Abriana had informed him on the night prior that she would have to forego their usual shared horseback ride due to a formal breakfast meeting with a foreign dignitary, Solo decided to take advantage of the break in the weather to set out extremely early on the catamaran. He had breakfasted in the sitting room of his chambers and was just finishing a final cup of coffee before making his way to the private royal dock when Abriana was announced into the room by the ever-efficient Beppe: “Her Gracious Highness, the Grand Princess Abriana.”
In courteous acknowledgement of Abriana’s unexpected entrance, Solo rose from his chair before the small table that held his breakfast tray. “Gracious Highness,” he greeted her with a broad smile.
“My appointment was cancelled as the visiting King of the Belgians, Baudouin, is indisposed this morning,” Abriana breezily informed Napoleon. “So I thought perhaps we could go for our ride after all.” Then her eyes focused on Napoleon’s particular attire and her bright cheerfulness faded a shade or two. “Oh, you were planning to go sailing.”
“My plans can change,” he assured the Nascosten monarch easily.
“No, you enjoy your excursions on the catamaran too much for me to steal one from you,” protested Abriana. She was thoroughly disappointed though in not getting to spend some relatively private time with Napoleon. Then her face brightened once more, “I have the solution: I will go sailing with you!”
“But you dislike sailing,” noted Napoleon with a teasing smile.
“But I like being in your company,” admitted Abriana with surprising readiness. “So I can bear a few hours on the water for that greater pleasure,” she uttered words unknowingly analogous to Napoleon’s own regarding the riding jaunts. “Besides, you’ll keep me safe, now won’t you?” teased the Grand Princess in her turn.
“A task I will undertake more than willingly, Gracious Highness,” forwarded Napoleon. “Do realize though that the catamaran only has room for two,” he reminded with a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes.
Abriana laughed lightly at his sly hint. “All the better!” she confirmed. “My bodyguards can shadow in another boat if they have a mind to.”
“I’m certain they will be of that mind,” guaranteed Solo.
“Most likely, but no matter,” Abriana declared with a radiant smile. “We will have our day together on the water whatever they decide to do.”
And so, after Abriana had changed into clothes suitable for sailing, the two made their way onto the catamaran. Abriana’s two bodyguards meanwhile outfitted a motorized daysailer for their use in shadowing Solo’s smaller boat.
The day was fine and sunny, though definitely windy, perhaps indicative of a strong bora blowing through the more northern reaches of the Adriatic . Napoleon enjoyed the nautical maneuvering necessary to pilot the sleek catamaran across the choppy waters. Abriana watched him in rather mesmerized admiration. There was no doubting his expertise in this venue. And she had to admit she adored covertly scrutinizing the controlled flex of biceps and triceps, bared by the short sleeves of his blue-and-white striped polo, as he handled the rigging of the boat.
“He is positively gorgeous,” she thought absently as she observed him at his various seafaring chores.
The rough waves proved far easier for the catamaran to navigate than for the slightly larger daysailer. The sails of the catamaran stretched perfectly in the wind under Solo’s skilled guiding touch. While the motor of the daysailer had to fight through the uneven peaks of water, sometimes resulting in the boat rotating to one side or the other.
Breaking her fascinated gaze from Solo for a moment, Abriana noticed the daysailer spin in a less-than-controlled circle a bit farther than expected from their own craft. “They’re in trouble,” she remarked worriedly to Napoleon as she incautiously stood up in her place on one of the boat’s twin hulls.
“Abriana, sit down!” Solo shouted out a warning, but too late as a high-cresting wave threw the standing Grand Princess off-balance and thus over into the blue waters of the Adriatic Sea. Immediately she panicked, with the result that she was only sporadically able to keep her head above the waves.
Lifejackets were not standard equipment for recreational sailing in 1955. Thus neither Napoleon nor Abriana was wearing one. The swift little catamaran had opened up a huge swath of sweeping water between itself and the daysailer. There was no likelihood of aid from that quarter. So Solo took a deep breath to calm his own nerves at the prospect of immersion in the churning sea, and dove into the waves to retrieve the struggling Abriana.
Though he absolutely abhorred the endeavor, Solo was a more than competent swimmer. It was a skill he had sharply disciplined himself to learn in childhood. Napoleon, therefore, soon had Abriana in tow. The catamaran had kept up its rapid fronting into the wind, however, pushing it further and further from the last position where Napoleon had espied the daysailer. It took him several long minutes of pushing through the choppy sea, with Abriana secured by one of his arms around her chest, before he made contact with the catamaran. He lifted the fortunately fully conscious Grand Princess and literally rolled her slight form onto the nearest hull. Then he plunged under the waves a final time before pulling himself up on the opposite hull.
“I’m going to take the boat in onto the nearest wedge of shore,” Solo advised the Grand Princess as he briskly turned to the effort of bringing the catamaran back fully under his control. “Your bodyguards can catch up with us there.”
Abriana nodded briefly, her breathing still shaky, and remained exactly where she was, lying on her back on one hull of that boat. Napoleon used the force of the wind to turn into shore, ultimately jumping into waist-high water and beaching the catamaran by dragging it onto the coastline once near enough to do so. He again lifted the somewhat traumatized Grand Princess in his arms and settled her on the sand, sitting beside her and pulling her close. She clung to him, trembling all over and clenching at his sodden shirt with tightly closed fists. She pressed her face into his chest as gulping sobs finally escaped from her.
“Shhh. Hush now,” Napoleon soothed her in soft tones. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She looked up into his face with huge, tear-glazed eyes. “It was almost all over. Almost the end.”
“I pledged to keep you safe, Abriana, and I always keep my promises,” Napoleon stated as he rubbed one hand in comforting circles over her back, gentling her as one would any genuinely terrified creature.
“Life is too short,” she whispered quietly. “Life is always too short.”
“You’ll have a long life, Abriana,” he contradicted as he hugged her even closer.
“No one can count on that,” Abriana gainsaid him in an eerily muted voice. “No one should count on that.”
“We can only live as best we can for as long as we are given,” Napoleon reassured her.
“Yes. No moment should be wasted because we never know if that moment might be the last.”
This melancholy mood in her gave Napoleon real pause. It was perhaps understandable, but there was as well something… oddly determined in it.
“I want to tell you a story, Napoleon,” she then began out-of-the-blue.
“Does it begin with once upon a time?” he asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she decided as she turned her body to sit sideways in his arms and thus lean her head back against his chest. She could feel his steady heartbeat and it relaxed her shock-born anxiety like nothing else could.
“Once upon a time there was a Crown Prince whose moral principles demanded of him that he aid a neighboring country in shaking off the yoke of a longtime oppressor. He set sail upon the waters of the Adriatic in pursuit of this personal quest. Encountering a bad squall at sea, he was given up for drowned. But in truth he had managed to make shore within the land of his personal quest.
“There he joined a group of insurgents fighting for freedom from that oppressor. And there he met a young woman whose idealistic character captured the innermost yearnings of his own soul. She was some years older than him and more importantly not of his faith. Thus marrying her was something that would not be countenanced within his own land for one of his status of birth. That mattered not to him in the moment as he fought with the revolutionaries and gave his heart willingly to the young woman.
“Eventually he was taken prisoner by the oppressor’s forces, as was the young woman. His royal birth shielded him from the worse circumstances of political imprisonment. Not true for the young woman. Freedom for the Crown Prince was secured by his royal father and he was taken back to his home country. He begged for intervention by his father to secure the freedom of the young woman as well. His father provided such intervention, but only after receiving from his son a promise never to contact the young woman again. After all she could never reign beside him, so it was best he let her live her life without further imposition. That reasoning was without doubt sound, and so the bargain was made between father and son.
“By unspoken commandment, the young woman with whom the Crown Prince had fallen in love so foolishly, foolish in terms of position and that position’s responsibilities, was never mentioned within the precincts of the royal household and was never even heard tell of by those outside it. The Crown Prince came to rule after his father’s passing and subsequently, at a greater age than most, married as was deemed suitable by the nation at large. His wife was a fine and noble woman, a goodly number of years his junior, who blessed him with two daughters. But their union was built on simple fondness and national expectations: not true devotion. Thus it surely was understandable when his wife died giving birth to that second daughter, the one-time Crown Prince felt particularly his lifelong personal loneliness.
“Word came to him about the young woman from sources he relentlessly plumbed for information in such regard. He knew then what his soul demanded he do. He was Grand Prince now with two viable heirs. With the duties of rule fulfilled with regard to the particulars of succession, he was at last free to follow the dictates of his own heart.
“Therefore did he seek out the young woman, who was of course no longer young but who still had a hold on his very soul. By a strange stroke of luck, she had converted to his faith because of a personal wish to distance herself from the oppressor past of her own country. He married her, against the advice of all his councilors. Yet he was an absolute ruler and had no need for their agreement or endorsement on such a score.
“The one-time young woman, contrary to all negative reservations, became beloved of his people. She gave the nation a decade of caring as the consort of the reigning sovereign, and that sovereign himself a decade of happiness unparalleled in his life. Yet in his inmost heart, as he sometimes would reveal in private to one or the other of his daughters after the death of that beloved second wife, did he continuously regret all the prior moments of her life he had lost to his own ‘sensible’ decision.”
Her story done, Abriana fell silent.
Napoleon said with quiet certitude, “The Crown Prince was your father.”
“Yes,” she conceded.
“And you told me this story because…”
“Because, even when good things eventually come from bad decisions, life is never as long as we hope.”
Perhaps it was a bit unanticipated that those words reminded Solo strongly of some recent ones of Waverly: Time is a commodity that cannot be reclaimed.
Buoyed by the truth of this sentiment no matter how or why expressed, Napoleon took hold of Abriana’s face within the palm of one hand and turned it up toward his own, so he could look down directly into her eyes.
“Marry me, Abriana,” he requested simply, “because life is never as long as we hope.”
Her gaze glued to his, she responded just as simply, “Yes.”
And, like any romantic pact shared between two idealistic young people, this one was sealed with a kiss.
“You did what?” demanded Tomas Grecco in a stunned and totally disapproving tone.
“I have accepted Napoleon’s proposal of marriage,” pronounced Abriana unwaveringly.
“Then you will just have to ‘unaccept’ it,” counseled Grecco. “I am sure the young man will understand the necessities of your position make this union an impossibility.”
“Perhaps he might understand, but I would not,” firmly forwarded the Grand Princess. “I intend to marry him, Tomas. I will marry him.”
“Madam, you cannot!”
“Let me remind you that, as Grand Princess of Nascoste, I do not need your sanction in anything. I am most certainly not asking your permission; I am merely telling you what will be.”
“Gracious Highness, this is a most unwise exercise of royal prerogative,” Grecco attempted to take the rational route. “Though he is Catholic and his religion thus presents no issue, there is the matter of his lineage not suiting the paradigm legally required to allow any children you may conceive by him to be accepted as heirs presumptive to the throne of Nascoste.”
“Donjeta can be assumed as heir presumptive even as she is now. I have no qualms with that as the blood flowing in her veins comes as much by way of my father, Grand Prince Adalfieri, as does my own.”
“And if Donjeta does as you would do and enters into a morganatic marriage as well?” needled Grecco somewhat unfairly. “After all, you are setting her but a poor example in this.”
“I have sacrificed much as ruler of Nascoste. I surely during my lifetime will be called upon to sacrifice more, and willingly will I do so. But I will not sacrifice the one I love! I have my father’s sad example in this,” the Grand Princess hotly countered her minister’s somewhat low emotional blow.
“Your father did not in the end make any such sacrifice!”
“After how many years of doing so? One cannot count on there always being time for things to work themselves out with some eternal sense of justice, Tomas. Thus will I marry Napoleon now.”
“You are too young!” Tomas all but shouted at her. “The pair of you! You’re barely twenty-one and he is what? A year older?”
“Fourteen months older,” stated Abriana without a qualm.
“Babes in the woods! Both of you!”
“I don’t believe Napoleon would tolerate being referred to in such a manner,” Abriana noted in her coldest official voice. “I know I will not. If I am of sufficient age to legally reign over Nascoste, I am of sufficient age to marry as I wish.”
“Gracious Highness, I beg you to reconsider,” Tomas returned to a more reasonable approach and a less strident tone.
“Reconsider I will not,” came Abriana’s unshakable decision. “On the morrow, you will make the official announcement regarding my betrothal to Mr. Napoleon Solo of the State of New York in the United States of America. And immediately, Tomas, you will set about all needful arrangements for a wedding in May. I want to marry before I am formally crowned. A small nuptial service only, as the coronation celebration is already taxing this country’s exchequer. Perhaps in the parish church of Vatican City, St Anne’s, where my father wed Ljena some sixteen years ago. Sixteen is a number of some significance in religious matters as there are sixteen names for God in the Old Testament and St. Paul wrote of the sixteen qualities of love within the New.”
“Madam,” Grecco reluctantly acknowledged her instructions with a slight bowing of his head for he knew there would be in this no dissuading her. Her romanticized view of love as a fairytale always intended to end in ‘happily ever after’ would make her adamancy absolute. But as to any possible significance of the number sixteen, Tomas was more inclined to account it by more modern standards as the number of destruction.
Handsomely dressed in a linen shirt, riding breeches and mid-calf boots in readiness for his usual morning horseback ride with the Grand Princess of Nascoste, Napoleon Solo stood in the sitting room of his private apartments within Castello di Marmo Scuro. At the moment, however, he was engaged in another morning routine: going over his calendar for the day with the ever-efficient Beppe.
“You will have to forego any excursion in the catamaran as you have another alteration session with the tailor this afternoon, Mr. Solo,” the gentleman’s gentleman reminded Napoleon after checking the black leather diary in which he kept meticulous record of all Solo’s scheduled appointments.
“Another one, Beppe?” questioned Napoleon in some surprise. Goodness knows he always appreciated the procurement of new clothes, but it seemed he had been scheduled for a fitting with the tailor every other day since the formal announcement of his engagement to Abriana two-and-a-half weeks before.
“Mr. Solo, you are to be the August Sir, Grand Consort of the Grand Princess Abriana of Nascoste. You must never lack for the proper wardrobe to play that part to the full.”
Funny that Beppe should describe it as playing a part. The faithful valet had no clue just how accurate that description truly was in this case.
“The precedence title ‘August Sir’ makes me feel like some sort of ancient Roman emperor,” further grumped Napoleon.
“Tradition is tradition, Mr. Solo,” tut-tutted Beppe. “And by tradition the title of precedence for a male Grand Consort is August Sir.”
“So even you will refer to me in such a manner after the marriage, Beppe?” Napoleon asked with a little sigh of disgruntled disappointment.
“Of course, Mr. Solo. Not to do so would be to demean the royal family of Nascoste by dismissing your place in the household. And I would never do that.”
Just then the Grand Princess, rather fetchingly dressed in a female variation of Napoleon’s attire, bustled into the open door of the sitting room. Her ubiquitous bodyguards remained on quiet watch in the adjoining hall.
“Good morning, my darling,” Abriana greeted Napoleon happily as she walked straight to him, pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and placed a brief kiss on Solo’s lips as he obligingly bent his head to meet hers. “And what will you be up to today after our ride?”
“Letting the tailor stick me with pins again,” gibed Napoleon, still with some annoyance at the currently too oft-repeated process of custom couture.
Abriana laughed lightly. “Ah, but you make me the envy of every woman in the world when they see the striking man I chose as my future husband so well turned-out in newsreels and photographs.”
Napoleon chuckled, his own mood lightening. “Then I guess it’s worth all the pinpricks.”
“That’s my brave cavalier,” she mock-praised as she rubbed a supposedly soothing yet slyly stimulating hand up-and-down the length of one his arms. “But what I actually came for is to tell you an international phone call will be put through here to your confidential line in a few moments. From your Aunt Amy in Copenhagen.”
“Ah.” Napoleon mentally prepared himself for his aunt’s likely interrogation involving his upcoming nuptials.
“I thought I would bring you that news myself, and at the same time gather up Beppe for suggestions regarding ceremonial garb for you during the coronation ceremony. Thus granting you full privacy to talk with your aunt.”
“I’m grateful for the consideration with regard to the privacy, Gracious Highness,” acknowledged Napoleon with a somewhat mischievous smile, “but not enough to submit to being outfitted in any sort of velvet-and-ermine getup for your coronation.”
“I haven’t yet decided on the styling of the ‘getup’,” Abriana taunted with a mischievous smile of her own. “But you’ll wear by royal decree whatever I come up with in my head, with Beppe’s capable guidance.”
“Woah is me! About to be shackled to a woman with supreme power within her sphere of sway!” moaned Napoleon with dramatic silliness.
“And don’t you forget it, my August Sir!” Abriana joked merrily.
Since her betrothal, Abriana’s mood had been continually upbeat and marked by unbridled bliss. A fact that once more sent stabs of guilt through Napoleon’s conscience. Yet he knew he couldn’t dwell on that guilt. He had a job to do. In any case he also intended to do his best, more than his best, to provide Abriana with at least a short-lived period of joy in her marriage to him.
The ringing of the phone resulted in Abriana commanding Beppe, with just the single mention of his name, to follow her out of the room. The competent manservant did so with a slight bow to the Grand Princess and the tactful closing of the door to the chamber after his own exit.
Napoleon sat down on a chair near the table on which the phone rested, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Aunt Amy,” he greeted his maternal grandmother’s sister, thus his actual great-aunt, with a ready cheeriness.
“Napoleon, trying to get a hold of you has been all but impossible!" Amy Oppen-Schilden complained a bit anxiously. “All this regal folderol! From the international security folks,” she made discreet allusion to the initiation of her quest to contact him through U.N.C.L.E. channels, “to the American government folks, to the Nascosten security folks, to the Nascosten government folks, and then back to the Nascosten security folks again. I swear my call was routed to you by way of Shanghai!”
“I do apologize for the runaround, Aunt Amy,” Napoleon contritely assured her. “I’m not accustomed to all this regal folderol yet myself, or I would have circumvented at least some of it with regard to you getting in touch with me.”
“So what is this I hear about you marrying the Grand Princess of Nascoste?” Amy put the most salient query squarely on the table.
“Seems a passionate taste for European aristocracy runs in the family,” teased Napoleon with regard to Amy’s own conjugal union with a minor Danish noble. That husband of hers was long dead now. Yet had he been without question the love of her life, a man she had wheedled and cajoled her parents into letting her wed at but seventeen years of age.
“It’s the French LaCoursiere blood,” Amy alluded to the maternal roots of Solo’s heritage through his grandmother. “I’ve always told you it runs hot.”
“So you have,” conceded Napoleon.
“I did want to let you know there were inquiries made to the family estate lawyers by various representatives of the Nascosten government,” Amy noncommittally noted. Yet Napoleon knew what was concerning her.
“I’ve no doubt of that. Researched my background every which way from Sunday, more than likely,” he kept his response easy and untroubled.
“And found it of course quite pristine,” his aunt guaranteed him. “Napoleon,” she then questioned in a composed yet undeniably worried manner, “is this really what you want?”
“This is right for me, Aunt,” he answered her in a way that told her much more than what was actually said.
Amy Oppen-Schilden was listed as the next-of-kin of one Napoleon Solo with regard to U.N.C.L.E. legalities as she and his paternal grandfather were all that was left of Solo’s immediate family. And that grandfather, the Admiral as he was always referenced even by his closest relations, had but recently retired from the United States Navy and was enjoying his new carefree life in Fiji. Thus Napoleon hadn’t thought it fair to burden the man with any disquieting provisions of his own budding career as a Command enforcement agent.
That didn’t mean, however, that Aunt Amy was privy to the full parameters of her nephew’s position within Section II of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Such relatives of record were never told more than the barest of essentials. Yet Amy was an extremely astute woman with a well-traveled global awareness. Thus Napoleon often suspected his great-aunt understood far more about his chosen professional path than she ever let on.
“You know I will always support you in anything that means much to you, Napoleon. I will do no less in this.”
“Come to the wedding, Aunt,” he invited her with tender affection. “It is to be rather private, for a royal wedding that is.”
“Try and keep me away, mon cher neveu,” she pledged him lovingly.
“Never, ma chère tante. Goodbye, Aunt Amy, and I will try and get any future calls you make to me transmitted through a route less circuitous than that via Shanghai. I promise!”
“You’d better, young man. Goodbye, Napoleon.” And with that the open line between Diamant-Grezzo and Copenhagen clicked off.
Napoleon was just about to return the receiver to its cradle when a muffled sound through the earpiece caught his attention. He heard the words “…works to our advantage…” in what he quickly recognized, with all the astute alertness of a spy, as the voice of Zamir Continetti.
Somehow the private line in his suite was picking up a signal from another private line in the palace. The signal was weak and a bit sporadic, but Napoleon knew this was an unlooked-for opportunity to garner direct information about the Accesso all’Orecchio’s transactions with Thrush. Placing a hand over the mouthpiece to keep his breathing from possibly being overheard through the misbehaving phone line, Solo intently listened in.
“…idealistic young man… …not of direct use…”
Solo quickly realized he was only hearing bits of conversation from one side, Continetti’s side. That didn’t provide the ideal setup for obtaining the facts he needed, but it was nonetheless an unexpected windfall. And Napoleon was certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“…Donjeta’s future position is assured… providing impetus for perhaps quicker… …been in touch… …will travel from Albania… …keeping him under wraps will be… …rather arrogant and definitely self-willed… …revolutionary zealot, this stepbrother… …making himself a negative reputation within Soviet circles… …has no qualms about using his vague link… …emotional ties to the past…”
Napoleon blinked in astonishment. A stepbrother? To whom? Vague link to what? And what emotional ties had he to what past?
Solo noted the muted click that indicated the communication line leaking into his had terminated its connection. Hanging up the receiver of the phone, Napoleon knew he had to get in immediate touch with U.N.C.L.E. They would be able to further investigate this lead, while he was even more inhibited in that department with all the constant fluttering and flustering going on about him with regard to the upcoming wedding.
Not in the least sure that the private line from his communicator with its location-to-location hop technology might not wind up leaking into another line in the palace as had Continetti’s, Solo decided to at least make any undetected pick-up of his exchange as difficult as possible to overhear. Accordingly he locked himself in the bathroom and, after piggybacking the connector of his communicator into the electrical current available in an outlet near the shaving mirror, opened the water spigots at full blast within the shower, the tub, and the sink.
“Open Channel D. International relay: Solo to New York.”
It took a good three minutes for the hop to be completed. At last Mr. Waverly’s voice sounded over the transmitter: “Report, Mr. Solo. And good heavens, man, what is all that background noise? Sounds like you are sending through the main cascade of Niagara Falls!”
“Necessary precaution, sir,” explained Napoleon. “I discovered quite by accident that there might be some bleeding of communication lines within the palace.”
“Ah,” Waverly acknowledged. “Then I assume you have good reason for attempting this contact after such a discovery?”
“Yes sir. That chance discovery also granted me one-sided though rather intermittent access to the private communication line used by Zamir Continetti.”
“I see. And that afforded you what information of interest, Mr. Solo?”
“There is a stepbrother of some sort. I don’t know what sort or to whom related exactly. Perhaps to Continetti himself, or to his Thrush contact, or to—”
“Or to the Princesses of Nascoste,” Waverly interjected, knowing where Solo’s supposition was heading.
“Yes sir. I don’t see how that could really be kept secret, but… In any case this stepbrother is apparently some kind of revolutionary. Most likely in Albania from what little I was able to catch. There was mention of him accumulating a ‘negative reputation’ with the Soviets.”
“Intriguing to be sure, Mr. Solo.”
“The puzzle is still missing a lot of pieces, sir.”
“Indeed, but we are making progress toward finding them all. Then it will only be a question of fitting them rightly together.”
“Yes sir.”
“U.N.C.L.E. will make discreet inquiries in Albania. In the meanwhile, Mr. Solo, try to sweet talk any possible family secrets out of your future wife.”
“Yes sir,” Solo acquiesced though this idea really bothered him in ways he would be completely at a loss to explain. Perhaps part of the issue was that he positively knew Abriana would hide nothing from him, if he straightforwardly asked. But asking any such potentially upsetting questions seemed so overtly manipulative, the prospect all but made his skin crawl.
“Carry on, Mr. Solo. And do find a more discreet location for transmission when you next make contact.”
“I had been doing so from the catamaran when I went out alone sailing. Now though, with all the wedding preparations, well…”
“Understood, Mr. Solo. Waverly out.”
Napoleon closed up the cigarette case and then closed off all the running taps. With a sigh he returned to his bedroom and put back the communicator where he routinely stashed it, beneath a floorboard he had expertly pried up and undetectably replaced in its original spot under the bed.
Granted less than five weeks to make all preparations for the wedding of Abriana, Grand Princess of Nascoste, and Napoleon Solo, citizen of the United States, Tomas Grecco had been negotiating, arranging and stage-managing details day and night.
Receiving the necessary permissions to use St. Anne’s in Vatican City as the venue for the matrimonial service hadn’t been as difficult as Tomas had feared. The members of the Nascosten royal family were all devout Roman Catholics whose relations with the Vatican rested on very secure ground. But that still left the overriding matter of the documents necessary for the marriage to take place. A Nulla Osta was needed for both parties, since neither Abriana nor Napoleon were Italian citizens. And, as an American, Solo was required to attain an Atto Notorio as well.
Grecco had anticipated no issue with procuring the Nulla Osta for the Grand Princess, but had been less certain of what might be involved with obtaining both this and the Atto Notorio for Solo. The timeframe was so short and movement of the Italian civil administration was not usually of the swiftest in nature. Surprisingly though he encountered little trouble and even less delay in this process. Of course that U.N.C.L.E. used covert influence to insure everything ran smoothly in these particulars was a fact entirely unknown to the Nascosten Minister of Internal Affairs.
And then there was the subject of the wedding vows. The couple, undoubtedly through the initial impetus of Mr. Solo though Abriana had supported him without hesitation in this request, stubbornly wanted the traditional Catholic verbiage slightly customized. Grecco went back-and-forth with the rather staid Italian bishop who would be officiating the sacrament. As adamant as the marrying couple was about varying the words, the man of God was just as adamant about not varying the words. Or at least he had been just as adamant until yesterday. Today Grecco had thankfully received notification that the modified wording was approved. Tomas had no idea why the bishop had undergone a change of heart, but he was much relieved that he had. It tidied up the last worrisome facet of the upcoming nuptials. With only four days left until the date of the wedding, this final point had wound up timed far too close to the vest for maximum comfort. Yet at last Tomas could allow himself to breathe somewhat freely.
Zamir Continetti entered the office of the Minister of Internal Affairs after receiving an “Enter” in response to his discreet knock.
“How are you holding up in all this matrimonial hubbub, Tomas?” inquired the Accesso all’Orecchio with a friendly smile.
Tomas cheerfully returned the smile. “Much more calmly, now that the request for the alteration in the marriage vows has been granted.”
“Ah yes, something for which Mr. Solo particularly asked,” Continetti verbally recalled as he physically acknowledged Grecco’s invitational gesture toward an available chair by seating himself in that chair.
“And to which Her Gracious Highness gave unqualified assent. And now so have all necessary parties,” declared Grecco with obvious relief in his voice.
The Internal Affairs Minister passed across the desk to his governmental colleague a letter direct from the bishop’s office which delineated the specifics of the vow and verified its acceptance for use within the ceremony. Continetti took that paper in hand and read it over, noting the contents of the customized vow. Something in that verbiage raised yet another flag within his mind, tugging at a misgiving he couldn’t quite name.
“And the Holy See permitted this?” he inquired pointedly.
“It was left in the hands of the officiating bishop and,” Grecco clarified, “as you have read in that document, he has at last consented.”
Continetti had much on his mind and honestly he considered the man the Grand Princess would soon marry as of but minor consequence. Solo would serve his purpose by bringing Donjeta more leverage as Crown Princess. Beyond that he cared not at all. Thrush Central had notified him of nothing to give undue pause regarding Napoleon Solo. Therefore, that Abriana would have her desired romantic fairytale with a charming American idealist was a matter of small import in his eyes.
“Young people can be so very obstinate regarding such irrelevant minutiae,” Zamir commented idly as he returned the dispatch to the desk of Tomas Grecco.
Thus for the second time did Zamir Continetti ignore the niggling of indefinable suspicion tickling at the back of his mind.
Three days before the date of the wedding Abriana, Grand Princess of Nascoste, and her fiancé, the American Napoleon Solo, made their way via the royal yacht across the Adriatic Sea to the coast of Italy. Such a means of travel was not exactly Abriana’s preference, but this was an occasion for a certain exhibition of nationalistic spectacle. Arriving in the Italian port of Bari after a trip of about seven hours across the water, the couple was greeted by an enthusiastic crowd of onlookers who cheered and applauded them. Abriana was at her regal best, smiling and waving, and Napoleon fell easily into the practice of amiable public display as well.
In Bari the two settled into a limousine that was nestled within the midst of a cavalcade of similar cars for the additional approximately five-hour trip westerly across and northerly up the Italian peninsula into the capital city of Rome. Their first night housed in the Nascosten embassy in The Eternal City was understandably one of complete rest after their long day of travel. On the second night, the American Embassy to the Holy See in Vatican City hosted a pre-wedding reception for them. They spent the last day before the wedding in personal preparations: the remaining filing of any needed documentation, final fittings for wedding apparel, private get-togethers with family or friends visiting for the celebration, and a face-to-face discussion with the bishop who would be officiating the marriage service. Finally on May 16th in the year 1955, the young couple separately made their way, each in a silver limousine, to the Church of St. Anne in Vatican.
The wedding was being kept as much a private affair as possible considering it would create a connubial union for a reigning monarch. Yet, in accordance with general monarchial custom, the crowned heads of various nations were all accounted as “extended family”. Thus such nations all sent envoys, most direct relations of the crowned heads in question, to the ceremony. Elected heads of state were not included on the guest list, however, though Ambassador Tilerstein did serve as official representative of the President of the United States, who had been invited because of Napoleon’s native citizenry.
No cameras were being allowed inside the chapel precincts during the service. Both still and newsreel photographers, therefore, made up for this lack of opportunity by obtaining as much footage as possible outside the venue, in particular when the pair made their arrival. Cameras snapped wildly as first Napoleon, nattily attired in an Oxford gray morning suit contrasted by a dove-gray waistcoat, pure white shirt, and silver-toned tie, exited his car near the baroque arched gate of St. Anne’s and subsequently made his way into the interior of the church. Those cameras exploded into even more furious action as the Grand Princess, dressed in a flowing full-length gown of pale lavender silk organza, arrived on the scene. She wore on her head only a wreath of intermingled light and dark lavender flowers securing a waist-length expanse of wispy silver illusion veiling. As Her Gracious Highness had explained to her Minister of Internal Affairs, Tomas Grecco, since she was not yet coronated, she would not make a display of misguided hubris by wearing any type of tiara. One particular image of Abriana standing under the baroque header of the open main gate of St. Anne in Vatican, her dress and veil billowing prettily in the breeze as she clutched steadily in both hands a bouquet of lavender blossoms in the same color palette of intermixed purples as her headpiece, appeared the next day somewhere in the pages of just about every newspaper worldwide.
The full nuptial mass of the service was of course highlighted by the exchange of marriage vows. The couple stood before the main altar within the square surrounded by four arches that separated that sacred area from the oval of the rest of the church. Napoleon was first to speak. In a strong and clear voice he made his pledge to Abriana in Italian.
“Io, Napoleone, prendo te, Abriana Pranvera Celestina, di essere mia moglie. Prometto che esserti fedele sempre nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia. Farò tesoro e onorare voi negli occhi di Dio, negli occhi del mondo, e negli occhi di ogni altro.”
Then, for the benefit of those not fluent in Italian, the groom repeated his vow in his native tongue.
“I, Napoleon, take you, Abriana Pranvera Celestina, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will treasure and honor you in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of each another.”
The last line was what had been the matter of such contention. The original verbiage of “I will love you and honor you all the days of my life” was just not comfortable wording for Napoleon. He had never made a promise he hadn’t intended to keep, and to make an oath to Abriana to love her for all the days of his life would be an outright lie. He just couldn’t bring his conscience to an inner acceptance of saying those words to her. Thus had he proposed the version of the vow he ultimately wound up making. The modified last line indeed framed a promise he fully intended on keeping for as long as he and Abriana remained together… and even beyond.
Napoleon was never to learn that it was Mr. Waverly who personally set things in motion to get the new words approved by the Church. This was not a thing the Continental Chief did for U.N.C.L.E.’s purposes. Rather it was something he arranged for the ease of mind of one of his operatives. He was fully cognizant of how much he asked of these young men. They all put much on the line with every enforcement mission. Thus now and again eliminating for them just a bit of mental or emotional pressure was something he considered part of his own mission as a high-level administrator within the Command.
After Abriana made her parallel vow in Italian and in English, the pair exchanged rings blessed by the bishop. With the traditional vocal notation, Napoleon slipped a wide gold band etched with an abstract design of bells, a symbol of protection by God’s saints and angels, upon the third finger, left hand of his bride. Then Abriana followed suit, placing a similar ring on the third finger, left hand of her groom, saying as she did so:
“Napoleone, prendi questo anello come segno del mio amore e di fedeltà. Nel nome del Padre e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo.”
Subsequently she repeated the words in English as well.
“Napoleon, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Together as one, the couple intoned in Italian: “Ti do questo anello, segno di tutto ciò che possiedo.” And in English: “I give you this ring, a token of all I possess.”
“Io ora vi dichiaro marito e moglie. È ora possibile baciare la sposa.” afterwards declared the bishop in a ringing tone.
{Translation: I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.}
Napoleon needed no further invitation. He drew Abriana close to him and kissed her with genuine tenderness. In deference to the sacredness of the venue, only a controlled smattering of applause filled the church.
And so it was done. The rite continued with the lighting of the candle, the prayers of the faithful, the liturgy of the Eucharist, and all other holy facets that marked a full Roman Catholic nuptial mass. Yet the main event was concluded and a strange peace settled upon the spirit of Napoleon Solo.
He didn’t know why. His job was far from finished. He still had no real clue as to what Thrush was hoping to accomplish by involving itself on the sly with the royal family of Nascoste. Yet he suddenly felt as if he would be truly able to protect Abriana from any fallout with regard to those presumably foul plans. He didn’t understand why he should feel any more secure in this now than he had before the wedding had taken place; he just recognized that he did. And in the moment he accepted that recognition with a more than willing heart.
Perhaps he too was being seduced by the romance of a fairytale.
...continued in Act IV and Epilogue...
Act III: …if the shoe fits…
April arrived in Nascoste with way too many of those showers that supposedly hold the promise of May flowers. Rain descended upon the little island nation for ten straight days, sometimes in sheeting downpours and sometimes in less heavy but nonetheless continuous storms. The dreary weather robbed Napoleon of his sailing outings on the Adriatic, making contact with U.N.C.L.E. more difficult for him to manage and thus more sporadic. Finally the eleventh day of April dawned clear and welcomely sunny.
As Abriana had informed him on the night prior that she would have to forego their usual shared horseback ride due to a formal breakfast meeting with a foreign dignitary, Solo decided to take advantage of the break in the weather to set out extremely early on the catamaran. He had breakfasted in the sitting room of his chambers and was just finishing a final cup of coffee before making his way to the private royal dock when Abriana was announced into the room by the ever-efficient Beppe: “Her Gracious Highness, the Grand Princess Abriana.”
In courteous acknowledgement of Abriana’s unexpected entrance, Solo rose from his chair before the small table that held his breakfast tray. “Gracious Highness,” he greeted her with a broad smile.
“My appointment was cancelled as the visiting King of the Belgians, Baudouin, is indisposed this morning,” Abriana breezily informed Napoleon. “So I thought perhaps we could go for our ride after all.” Then her eyes focused on Napoleon’s particular attire and her bright cheerfulness faded a shade or two. “Oh, you were planning to go sailing.”
“My plans can change,” he assured the Nascosten monarch easily.
“No, you enjoy your excursions on the catamaran too much for me to steal one from you,” protested Abriana. She was thoroughly disappointed though in not getting to spend some relatively private time with Napoleon. Then her face brightened once more, “I have the solution: I will go sailing with you!”
“But you dislike sailing,” noted Napoleon with a teasing smile.
“But I like being in your company,” admitted Abriana with surprising readiness. “So I can bear a few hours on the water for that greater pleasure,” she uttered words unknowingly analogous to Napoleon’s own regarding the riding jaunts. “Besides, you’ll keep me safe, now won’t you?” teased the Grand Princess in her turn.
“A task I will undertake more than willingly, Gracious Highness,” forwarded Napoleon. “Do realize though that the catamaran only has room for two,” he reminded with a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes.
Abriana laughed lightly at his sly hint. “All the better!” she confirmed. “My bodyguards can shadow in another boat if they have a mind to.”
“I’m certain they will be of that mind,” guaranteed Solo.
“Most likely, but no matter,” Abriana declared with a radiant smile. “We will have our day together on the water whatever they decide to do.”
And so, after Abriana had changed into clothes suitable for sailing, the two made their way onto the catamaran. Abriana’s two bodyguards meanwhile outfitted a motorized daysailer for their use in shadowing Solo’s smaller boat.
The day was fine and sunny, though definitely windy, perhaps indicative of a strong bora blowing through the more northern reaches of the Adriatic . Napoleon enjoyed the nautical maneuvering necessary to pilot the sleek catamaran across the choppy waters. Abriana watched him in rather mesmerized admiration. There was no doubting his expertise in this venue. And she had to admit she adored covertly scrutinizing the controlled flex of biceps and triceps, bared by the short sleeves of his blue-and-white striped polo, as he handled the rigging of the boat.
“He is positively gorgeous,” she thought absently as she observed him at his various seafaring chores.
The rough waves proved far easier for the catamaran to navigate than for the slightly larger daysailer. The sails of the catamaran stretched perfectly in the wind under Solo’s skilled guiding touch. While the motor of the daysailer had to fight through the uneven peaks of water, sometimes resulting in the boat rotating to one side or the other.
Breaking her fascinated gaze from Solo for a moment, Abriana noticed the daysailer spin in a less-than-controlled circle a bit farther than expected from their own craft. “They’re in trouble,” she remarked worriedly to Napoleon as she incautiously stood up in her place on one of the boat’s twin hulls.
“Abriana, sit down!” Solo shouted out a warning, but too late as a high-cresting wave threw the standing Grand Princess off-balance and thus over into the blue waters of the Adriatic Sea. Immediately she panicked, with the result that she was only sporadically able to keep her head above the waves.
Lifejackets were not standard equipment for recreational sailing in 1955. Thus neither Napoleon nor Abriana was wearing one. The swift little catamaran had opened up a huge swath of sweeping water between itself and the daysailer. There was no likelihood of aid from that quarter. So Solo took a deep breath to calm his own nerves at the prospect of immersion in the churning sea, and dove into the waves to retrieve the struggling Abriana.
Though he absolutely abhorred the endeavor, Solo was a more than competent swimmer. It was a skill he had sharply disciplined himself to learn in childhood. Napoleon, therefore, soon had Abriana in tow. The catamaran had kept up its rapid fronting into the wind, however, pushing it further and further from the last position where Napoleon had espied the daysailer. It took him several long minutes of pushing through the choppy sea, with Abriana secured by one of his arms around her chest, before he made contact with the catamaran. He lifted the fortunately fully conscious Grand Princess and literally rolled her slight form onto the nearest hull. Then he plunged under the waves a final time before pulling himself up on the opposite hull.
“I’m going to take the boat in onto the nearest wedge of shore,” Solo advised the Grand Princess as he briskly turned to the effort of bringing the catamaran back fully under his control. “Your bodyguards can catch up with us there.”
Abriana nodded briefly, her breathing still shaky, and remained exactly where she was, lying on her back on one hull of that boat. Napoleon used the force of the wind to turn into shore, ultimately jumping into waist-high water and beaching the catamaran by dragging it onto the coastline once near enough to do so. He again lifted the somewhat traumatized Grand Princess in his arms and settled her on the sand, sitting beside her and pulling her close. She clung to him, trembling all over and clenching at his sodden shirt with tightly closed fists. She pressed her face into his chest as gulping sobs finally escaped from her.
“Shhh. Hush now,” Napoleon soothed her in soft tones. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She looked up into his face with huge, tear-glazed eyes. “It was almost all over. Almost the end.”
“I pledged to keep you safe, Abriana, and I always keep my promises,” Napoleon stated as he rubbed one hand in comforting circles over her back, gentling her as one would any genuinely terrified creature.
“Life is too short,” she whispered quietly. “Life is always too short.”
“You’ll have a long life, Abriana,” he contradicted as he hugged her even closer.
“No one can count on that,” Abriana gainsaid him in an eerily muted voice. “No one should count on that.”
“We can only live as best we can for as long as we are given,” Napoleon reassured her.
“Yes. No moment should be wasted because we never know if that moment might be the last.”
This melancholy mood in her gave Napoleon real pause. It was perhaps understandable, but there was as well something… oddly determined in it.
“I want to tell you a story, Napoleon,” she then began out-of-the-blue.
“Does it begin with once upon a time?” he asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” she decided as she turned her body to sit sideways in his arms and thus lean her head back against his chest. She could feel his steady heartbeat and it relaxed her shock-born anxiety like nothing else could.
“Once upon a time there was a Crown Prince whose moral principles demanded of him that he aid a neighboring country in shaking off the yoke of a longtime oppressor. He set sail upon the waters of the Adriatic in pursuit of this personal quest. Encountering a bad squall at sea, he was given up for drowned. But in truth he had managed to make shore within the land of his personal quest.
“There he joined a group of insurgents fighting for freedom from that oppressor. And there he met a young woman whose idealistic character captured the innermost yearnings of his own soul. She was some years older than him and more importantly not of his faith. Thus marrying her was something that would not be countenanced within his own land for one of his status of birth. That mattered not to him in the moment as he fought with the revolutionaries and gave his heart willingly to the young woman.
“Eventually he was taken prisoner by the oppressor’s forces, as was the young woman. His royal birth shielded him from the worse circumstances of political imprisonment. Not true for the young woman. Freedom for the Crown Prince was secured by his royal father and he was taken back to his home country. He begged for intervention by his father to secure the freedom of the young woman as well. His father provided such intervention, but only after receiving from his son a promise never to contact the young woman again. After all she could never reign beside him, so it was best he let her live her life without further imposition. That reasoning was without doubt sound, and so the bargain was made between father and son.
“By unspoken commandment, the young woman with whom the Crown Prince had fallen in love so foolishly, foolish in terms of position and that position’s responsibilities, was never mentioned within the precincts of the royal household and was never even heard tell of by those outside it. The Crown Prince came to rule after his father’s passing and subsequently, at a greater age than most, married as was deemed suitable by the nation at large. His wife was a fine and noble woman, a goodly number of years his junior, who blessed him with two daughters. But their union was built on simple fondness and national expectations: not true devotion. Thus it surely was understandable when his wife died giving birth to that second daughter, the one-time Crown Prince felt particularly his lifelong personal loneliness.
“Word came to him about the young woman from sources he relentlessly plumbed for information in such regard. He knew then what his soul demanded he do. He was Grand Prince now with two viable heirs. With the duties of rule fulfilled with regard to the particulars of succession, he was at last free to follow the dictates of his own heart.
“Therefore did he seek out the young woman, who was of course no longer young but who still had a hold on his very soul. By a strange stroke of luck, she had converted to his faith because of a personal wish to distance herself from the oppressor past of her own country. He married her, against the advice of all his councilors. Yet he was an absolute ruler and had no need for their agreement or endorsement on such a score.
“The one-time young woman, contrary to all negative reservations, became beloved of his people. She gave the nation a decade of caring as the consort of the reigning sovereign, and that sovereign himself a decade of happiness unparalleled in his life. Yet in his inmost heart, as he sometimes would reveal in private to one or the other of his daughters after the death of that beloved second wife, did he continuously regret all the prior moments of her life he had lost to his own ‘sensible’ decision.”
Her story done, Abriana fell silent.
Napoleon said with quiet certitude, “The Crown Prince was your father.”
“Yes,” she conceded.
“And you told me this story because…”
“Because, even when good things eventually come from bad decisions, life is never as long as we hope.”
Perhaps it was a bit unanticipated that those words reminded Solo strongly of some recent ones of Waverly: Time is a commodity that cannot be reclaimed.
Buoyed by the truth of this sentiment no matter how or why expressed, Napoleon took hold of Abriana’s face within the palm of one hand and turned it up toward his own, so he could look down directly into her eyes.
“Marry me, Abriana,” he requested simply, “because life is never as long as we hope.”
Her gaze glued to his, she responded just as simply, “Yes.”
And, like any romantic pact shared between two idealistic young people, this one was sealed with a kiss.
“You did what?” demanded Tomas Grecco in a stunned and totally disapproving tone.
“I have accepted Napoleon’s proposal of marriage,” pronounced Abriana unwaveringly.
“Then you will just have to ‘unaccept’ it,” counseled Grecco. “I am sure the young man will understand the necessities of your position make this union an impossibility.”
“Perhaps he might understand, but I would not,” firmly forwarded the Grand Princess. “I intend to marry him, Tomas. I will marry him.”
“Madam, you cannot!”
“Let me remind you that, as Grand Princess of Nascoste, I do not need your sanction in anything. I am most certainly not asking your permission; I am merely telling you what will be.”
“Gracious Highness, this is a most unwise exercise of royal prerogative,” Grecco attempted to take the rational route. “Though he is Catholic and his religion thus presents no issue, there is the matter of his lineage not suiting the paradigm legally required to allow any children you may conceive by him to be accepted as heirs presumptive to the throne of Nascoste.”
“Donjeta can be assumed as heir presumptive even as she is now. I have no qualms with that as the blood flowing in her veins comes as much by way of my father, Grand Prince Adalfieri, as does my own.”
“And if Donjeta does as you would do and enters into a morganatic marriage as well?” needled Grecco somewhat unfairly. “After all, you are setting her but a poor example in this.”
“I have sacrificed much as ruler of Nascoste. I surely during my lifetime will be called upon to sacrifice more, and willingly will I do so. But I will not sacrifice the one I love! I have my father’s sad example in this,” the Grand Princess hotly countered her minister’s somewhat low emotional blow.
“Your father did not in the end make any such sacrifice!”
“After how many years of doing so? One cannot count on there always being time for things to work themselves out with some eternal sense of justice, Tomas. Thus will I marry Napoleon now.”
“You are too young!” Tomas all but shouted at her. “The pair of you! You’re barely twenty-one and he is what? A year older?”
“Fourteen months older,” stated Abriana without a qualm.
“Babes in the woods! Both of you!”
“I don’t believe Napoleon would tolerate being referred to in such a manner,” Abriana noted in her coldest official voice. “I know I will not. If I am of sufficient age to legally reign over Nascoste, I am of sufficient age to marry as I wish.”
“Gracious Highness, I beg you to reconsider,” Tomas returned to a more reasonable approach and a less strident tone.
“Reconsider I will not,” came Abriana’s unshakable decision. “On the morrow, you will make the official announcement regarding my betrothal to Mr. Napoleon Solo of the State of New York in the United States of America. And immediately, Tomas, you will set about all needful arrangements for a wedding in May. I want to marry before I am formally crowned. A small nuptial service only, as the coronation celebration is already taxing this country’s exchequer. Perhaps in the parish church of Vatican City, St Anne’s, where my father wed Ljena some sixteen years ago. Sixteen is a number of some significance in religious matters as there are sixteen names for God in the Old Testament and St. Paul wrote of the sixteen qualities of love within the New.”
“Madam,” Grecco reluctantly acknowledged her instructions with a slight bowing of his head for he knew there would be in this no dissuading her. Her romanticized view of love as a fairytale always intended to end in ‘happily ever after’ would make her adamancy absolute. But as to any possible significance of the number sixteen, Tomas was more inclined to account it by more modern standards as the number of destruction.
Handsomely dressed in a linen shirt, riding breeches and mid-calf boots in readiness for his usual morning horseback ride with the Grand Princess of Nascoste, Napoleon Solo stood in the sitting room of his private apartments within Castello di Marmo Scuro. At the moment, however, he was engaged in another morning routine: going over his calendar for the day with the ever-efficient Beppe.
“You will have to forego any excursion in the catamaran as you have another alteration session with the tailor this afternoon, Mr. Solo,” the gentleman’s gentleman reminded Napoleon after checking the black leather diary in which he kept meticulous record of all Solo’s scheduled appointments.
“Another one, Beppe?” questioned Napoleon in some surprise. Goodness knows he always appreciated the procurement of new clothes, but it seemed he had been scheduled for a fitting with the tailor every other day since the formal announcement of his engagement to Abriana two-and-a-half weeks before.
“Mr. Solo, you are to be the August Sir, Grand Consort of the Grand Princess Abriana of Nascoste. You must never lack for the proper wardrobe to play that part to the full.”
Funny that Beppe should describe it as playing a part. The faithful valet had no clue just how accurate that description truly was in this case.
“The precedence title ‘August Sir’ makes me feel like some sort of ancient Roman emperor,” further grumped Napoleon.
“Tradition is tradition, Mr. Solo,” tut-tutted Beppe. “And by tradition the title of precedence for a male Grand Consort is August Sir.”
“So even you will refer to me in such a manner after the marriage, Beppe?” Napoleon asked with a little sigh of disgruntled disappointment.
“Of course, Mr. Solo. Not to do so would be to demean the royal family of Nascoste by dismissing your place in the household. And I would never do that.”
Just then the Grand Princess, rather fetchingly dressed in a female variation of Napoleon’s attire, bustled into the open door of the sitting room. Her ubiquitous bodyguards remained on quiet watch in the adjoining hall.
“Good morning, my darling,” Abriana greeted Napoleon happily as she walked straight to him, pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and placed a brief kiss on Solo’s lips as he obligingly bent his head to meet hers. “And what will you be up to today after our ride?”
“Letting the tailor stick me with pins again,” gibed Napoleon, still with some annoyance at the currently too oft-repeated process of custom couture.
Abriana laughed lightly. “Ah, but you make me the envy of every woman in the world when they see the striking man I chose as my future husband so well turned-out in newsreels and photographs.”
Napoleon chuckled, his own mood lightening. “Then I guess it’s worth all the pinpricks.”
“That’s my brave cavalier,” she mock-praised as she rubbed a supposedly soothing yet slyly stimulating hand up-and-down the length of one his arms. “But what I actually came for is to tell you an international phone call will be put through here to your confidential line in a few moments. From your Aunt Amy in Copenhagen.”
“Ah.” Napoleon mentally prepared himself for his aunt’s likely interrogation involving his upcoming nuptials.
“I thought I would bring you that news myself, and at the same time gather up Beppe for suggestions regarding ceremonial garb for you during the coronation ceremony. Thus granting you full privacy to talk with your aunt.”
“I’m grateful for the consideration with regard to the privacy, Gracious Highness,” acknowledged Napoleon with a somewhat mischievous smile, “but not enough to submit to being outfitted in any sort of velvet-and-ermine getup for your coronation.”
“I haven’t yet decided on the styling of the ‘getup’,” Abriana taunted with a mischievous smile of her own. “But you’ll wear by royal decree whatever I come up with in my head, with Beppe’s capable guidance.”
“Woah is me! About to be shackled to a woman with supreme power within her sphere of sway!” moaned Napoleon with dramatic silliness.
“And don’t you forget it, my August Sir!” Abriana joked merrily.
Since her betrothal, Abriana’s mood had been continually upbeat and marked by unbridled bliss. A fact that once more sent stabs of guilt through Napoleon’s conscience. Yet he knew he couldn’t dwell on that guilt. He had a job to do. In any case he also intended to do his best, more than his best, to provide Abriana with at least a short-lived period of joy in her marriage to him.
The ringing of the phone resulted in Abriana commanding Beppe, with just the single mention of his name, to follow her out of the room. The competent manservant did so with a slight bow to the Grand Princess and the tactful closing of the door to the chamber after his own exit.
Napoleon sat down on a chair near the table on which the phone rested, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Aunt Amy,” he greeted his maternal grandmother’s sister, thus his actual great-aunt, with a ready cheeriness.
“Napoleon, trying to get a hold of you has been all but impossible!" Amy Oppen-Schilden complained a bit anxiously. “All this regal folderol! From the international security folks,” she made discreet allusion to the initiation of her quest to contact him through U.N.C.L.E. channels, “to the American government folks, to the Nascosten security folks, to the Nascosten government folks, and then back to the Nascosten security folks again. I swear my call was routed to you by way of Shanghai!”
“I do apologize for the runaround, Aunt Amy,” Napoleon contritely assured her. “I’m not accustomed to all this regal folderol yet myself, or I would have circumvented at least some of it with regard to you getting in touch with me.”
“So what is this I hear about you marrying the Grand Princess of Nascoste?” Amy put the most salient query squarely on the table.
“Seems a passionate taste for European aristocracy runs in the family,” teased Napoleon with regard to Amy’s own conjugal union with a minor Danish noble. That husband of hers was long dead now. Yet had he been without question the love of her life, a man she had wheedled and cajoled her parents into letting her wed at but seventeen years of age.
“It’s the French LaCoursiere blood,” Amy alluded to the maternal roots of Solo’s heritage through his grandmother. “I’ve always told you it runs hot.”
“So you have,” conceded Napoleon.
“I did want to let you know there were inquiries made to the family estate lawyers by various representatives of the Nascosten government,” Amy noncommittally noted. Yet Napoleon knew what was concerning her.
“I’ve no doubt of that. Researched my background every which way from Sunday, more than likely,” he kept his response easy and untroubled.
“And found it of course quite pristine,” his aunt guaranteed him. “Napoleon,” she then questioned in a composed yet undeniably worried manner, “is this really what you want?”
“This is right for me, Aunt,” he answered her in a way that told her much more than what was actually said.
Amy Oppen-Schilden was listed as the next-of-kin of one Napoleon Solo with regard to U.N.C.L.E. legalities as she and his paternal grandfather were all that was left of Solo’s immediate family. And that grandfather, the Admiral as he was always referenced even by his closest relations, had but recently retired from the United States Navy and was enjoying his new carefree life in Fiji. Thus Napoleon hadn’t thought it fair to burden the man with any disquieting provisions of his own budding career as a Command enforcement agent.
That didn’t mean, however, that Aunt Amy was privy to the full parameters of her nephew’s position within Section II of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Such relatives of record were never told more than the barest of essentials. Yet Amy was an extremely astute woman with a well-traveled global awareness. Thus Napoleon often suspected his great-aunt understood far more about his chosen professional path than she ever let on.
“You know I will always support you in anything that means much to you, Napoleon. I will do no less in this.”
“Come to the wedding, Aunt,” he invited her with tender affection. “It is to be rather private, for a royal wedding that is.”
“Try and keep me away, mon cher neveu,” she pledged him lovingly.
“Never, ma chère tante. Goodbye, Aunt Amy, and I will try and get any future calls you make to me transmitted through a route less circuitous than that via Shanghai. I promise!”
“You’d better, young man. Goodbye, Napoleon.” And with that the open line between Diamant-Grezzo and Copenhagen clicked off.
Napoleon was just about to return the receiver to its cradle when a muffled sound through the earpiece caught his attention. He heard the words “…works to our advantage…” in what he quickly recognized, with all the astute alertness of a spy, as the voice of Zamir Continetti.
Somehow the private line in his suite was picking up a signal from another private line in the palace. The signal was weak and a bit sporadic, but Napoleon knew this was an unlooked-for opportunity to garner direct information about the Accesso all’Orecchio’s transactions with Thrush. Placing a hand over the mouthpiece to keep his breathing from possibly being overheard through the misbehaving phone line, Solo intently listened in.
“…idealistic young man… …not of direct use…”
Solo quickly realized he was only hearing bits of conversation from one side, Continetti’s side. That didn’t provide the ideal setup for obtaining the facts he needed, but it was nonetheless an unexpected windfall. And Napoleon was certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“…Donjeta’s future position is assured… providing impetus for perhaps quicker… …been in touch… …will travel from Albania… …keeping him under wraps will be… …rather arrogant and definitely self-willed… …revolutionary zealot, this stepbrother… …making himself a negative reputation within Soviet circles… …has no qualms about using his vague link… …emotional ties to the past…”
Napoleon blinked in astonishment. A stepbrother? To whom? Vague link to what? And what emotional ties had he to what past?
Solo noted the muted click that indicated the communication line leaking into his had terminated its connection. Hanging up the receiver of the phone, Napoleon knew he had to get in immediate touch with U.N.C.L.E. They would be able to further investigate this lead, while he was even more inhibited in that department with all the constant fluttering and flustering going on about him with regard to the upcoming wedding.
Not in the least sure that the private line from his communicator with its location-to-location hop technology might not wind up leaking into another line in the palace as had Continetti’s, Solo decided to at least make any undetected pick-up of his exchange as difficult as possible to overhear. Accordingly he locked himself in the bathroom and, after piggybacking the connector of his communicator into the electrical current available in an outlet near the shaving mirror, opened the water spigots at full blast within the shower, the tub, and the sink.
“Open Channel D. International relay: Solo to New York.”
It took a good three minutes for the hop to be completed. At last Mr. Waverly’s voice sounded over the transmitter: “Report, Mr. Solo. And good heavens, man, what is all that background noise? Sounds like you are sending through the main cascade of Niagara Falls!”
“Necessary precaution, sir,” explained Napoleon. “I discovered quite by accident that there might be some bleeding of communication lines within the palace.”
“Ah,” Waverly acknowledged. “Then I assume you have good reason for attempting this contact after such a discovery?”
“Yes sir. That chance discovery also granted me one-sided though rather intermittent access to the private communication line used by Zamir Continetti.”
“I see. And that afforded you what information of interest, Mr. Solo?”
“There is a stepbrother of some sort. I don’t know what sort or to whom related exactly. Perhaps to Continetti himself, or to his Thrush contact, or to—”
“Or to the Princesses of Nascoste,” Waverly interjected, knowing where Solo’s supposition was heading.
“Yes sir. I don’t see how that could really be kept secret, but… In any case this stepbrother is apparently some kind of revolutionary. Most likely in Albania from what little I was able to catch. There was mention of him accumulating a ‘negative reputation’ with the Soviets.”
“Intriguing to be sure, Mr. Solo.”
“The puzzle is still missing a lot of pieces, sir.”
“Indeed, but we are making progress toward finding them all. Then it will only be a question of fitting them rightly together.”
“Yes sir.”
“U.N.C.L.E. will make discreet inquiries in Albania. In the meanwhile, Mr. Solo, try to sweet talk any possible family secrets out of your future wife.”
“Yes sir,” Solo acquiesced though this idea really bothered him in ways he would be completely at a loss to explain. Perhaps part of the issue was that he positively knew Abriana would hide nothing from him, if he straightforwardly asked. But asking any such potentially upsetting questions seemed so overtly manipulative, the prospect all but made his skin crawl.
“Carry on, Mr. Solo. And do find a more discreet location for transmission when you next make contact.”
“I had been doing so from the catamaran when I went out alone sailing. Now though, with all the wedding preparations, well…”
“Understood, Mr. Solo. Waverly out.”
Napoleon closed up the cigarette case and then closed off all the running taps. With a sigh he returned to his bedroom and put back the communicator where he routinely stashed it, beneath a floorboard he had expertly pried up and undetectably replaced in its original spot under the bed.
Granted less than five weeks to make all preparations for the wedding of Abriana, Grand Princess of Nascoste, and Napoleon Solo, citizen of the United States, Tomas Grecco had been negotiating, arranging and stage-managing details day and night.
Receiving the necessary permissions to use St. Anne’s in Vatican City as the venue for the matrimonial service hadn’t been as difficult as Tomas had feared. The members of the Nascosten royal family were all devout Roman Catholics whose relations with the Vatican rested on very secure ground. But that still left the overriding matter of the documents necessary for the marriage to take place. A Nulla Osta was needed for both parties, since neither Abriana nor Napoleon were Italian citizens. And, as an American, Solo was required to attain an Atto Notorio as well.
Grecco had anticipated no issue with procuring the Nulla Osta for the Grand Princess, but had been less certain of what might be involved with obtaining both this and the Atto Notorio for Solo. The timeframe was so short and movement of the Italian civil administration was not usually of the swiftest in nature. Surprisingly though he encountered little trouble and even less delay in this process. Of course that U.N.C.L.E. used covert influence to insure everything ran smoothly in these particulars was a fact entirely unknown to the Nascosten Minister of Internal Affairs.
And then there was the subject of the wedding vows. The couple, undoubtedly through the initial impetus of Mr. Solo though Abriana had supported him without hesitation in this request, stubbornly wanted the traditional Catholic verbiage slightly customized. Grecco went back-and-forth with the rather staid Italian bishop who would be officiating the sacrament. As adamant as the marrying couple was about varying the words, the man of God was just as adamant about not varying the words. Or at least he had been just as adamant until yesterday. Today Grecco had thankfully received notification that the modified wording was approved. Tomas had no idea why the bishop had undergone a change of heart, but he was much relieved that he had. It tidied up the last worrisome facet of the upcoming nuptials. With only four days left until the date of the wedding, this final point had wound up timed far too close to the vest for maximum comfort. Yet at last Tomas could allow himself to breathe somewhat freely.
Zamir Continetti entered the office of the Minister of Internal Affairs after receiving an “Enter” in response to his discreet knock.
“How are you holding up in all this matrimonial hubbub, Tomas?” inquired the Accesso all’Orecchio with a friendly smile.
Tomas cheerfully returned the smile. “Much more calmly, now that the request for the alteration in the marriage vows has been granted.”
“Ah yes, something for which Mr. Solo particularly asked,” Continetti verbally recalled as he physically acknowledged Grecco’s invitational gesture toward an available chair by seating himself in that chair.
“And to which Her Gracious Highness gave unqualified assent. And now so have all necessary parties,” declared Grecco with obvious relief in his voice.
The Internal Affairs Minister passed across the desk to his governmental colleague a letter direct from the bishop’s office which delineated the specifics of the vow and verified its acceptance for use within the ceremony. Continetti took that paper in hand and read it over, noting the contents of the customized vow. Something in that verbiage raised yet another flag within his mind, tugging at a misgiving he couldn’t quite name.
“And the Holy See permitted this?” he inquired pointedly.
“It was left in the hands of the officiating bishop and,” Grecco clarified, “as you have read in that document, he has at last consented.”
Continetti had much on his mind and honestly he considered the man the Grand Princess would soon marry as of but minor consequence. Solo would serve his purpose by bringing Donjeta more leverage as Crown Princess. Beyond that he cared not at all. Thrush Central had notified him of nothing to give undue pause regarding Napoleon Solo. Therefore, that Abriana would have her desired romantic fairytale with a charming American idealist was a matter of small import in his eyes.
“Young people can be so very obstinate regarding such irrelevant minutiae,” Zamir commented idly as he returned the dispatch to the desk of Tomas Grecco.
Thus for the second time did Zamir Continetti ignore the niggling of indefinable suspicion tickling at the back of his mind.
Three days before the date of the wedding Abriana, Grand Princess of Nascoste, and her fiancé, the American Napoleon Solo, made their way via the royal yacht across the Adriatic Sea to the coast of Italy. Such a means of travel was not exactly Abriana’s preference, but this was an occasion for a certain exhibition of nationalistic spectacle. Arriving in the Italian port of Bari after a trip of about seven hours across the water, the couple was greeted by an enthusiastic crowd of onlookers who cheered and applauded them. Abriana was at her regal best, smiling and waving, and Napoleon fell easily into the practice of amiable public display as well.
In Bari the two settled into a limousine that was nestled within the midst of a cavalcade of similar cars for the additional approximately five-hour trip westerly across and northerly up the Italian peninsula into the capital city of Rome. Their first night housed in the Nascosten embassy in The Eternal City was understandably one of complete rest after their long day of travel. On the second night, the American Embassy to the Holy See in Vatican City hosted a pre-wedding reception for them. They spent the last day before the wedding in personal preparations: the remaining filing of any needed documentation, final fittings for wedding apparel, private get-togethers with family or friends visiting for the celebration, and a face-to-face discussion with the bishop who would be officiating the marriage service. Finally on May 16th in the year 1955, the young couple separately made their way, each in a silver limousine, to the Church of St. Anne in Vatican.
The wedding was being kept as much a private affair as possible considering it would create a connubial union for a reigning monarch. Yet, in accordance with general monarchial custom, the crowned heads of various nations were all accounted as “extended family”. Thus such nations all sent envoys, most direct relations of the crowned heads in question, to the ceremony. Elected heads of state were not included on the guest list, however, though Ambassador Tilerstein did serve as official representative of the President of the United States, who had been invited because of Napoleon’s native citizenry.
No cameras were being allowed inside the chapel precincts during the service. Both still and newsreel photographers, therefore, made up for this lack of opportunity by obtaining as much footage as possible outside the venue, in particular when the pair made their arrival. Cameras snapped wildly as first Napoleon, nattily attired in an Oxford gray morning suit contrasted by a dove-gray waistcoat, pure white shirt, and silver-toned tie, exited his car near the baroque arched gate of St. Anne’s and subsequently made his way into the interior of the church. Those cameras exploded into even more furious action as the Grand Princess, dressed in a flowing full-length gown of pale lavender silk organza, arrived on the scene. She wore on her head only a wreath of intermingled light and dark lavender flowers securing a waist-length expanse of wispy silver illusion veiling. As Her Gracious Highness had explained to her Minister of Internal Affairs, Tomas Grecco, since she was not yet coronated, she would not make a display of misguided hubris by wearing any type of tiara. One particular image of Abriana standing under the baroque header of the open main gate of St. Anne in Vatican, her dress and veil billowing prettily in the breeze as she clutched steadily in both hands a bouquet of lavender blossoms in the same color palette of intermixed purples as her headpiece, appeared the next day somewhere in the pages of just about every newspaper worldwide.
The full nuptial mass of the service was of course highlighted by the exchange of marriage vows. The couple stood before the main altar within the square surrounded by four arches that separated that sacred area from the oval of the rest of the church. Napoleon was first to speak. In a strong and clear voice he made his pledge to Abriana in Italian.
“Io, Napoleone, prendo te, Abriana Pranvera Celestina, di essere mia moglie. Prometto che esserti fedele sempre nella gioia e nel dolore, nella salute e nella malattia. Farò tesoro e onorare voi negli occhi di Dio, negli occhi del mondo, e negli occhi di ogni altro.”
Then, for the benefit of those not fluent in Italian, the groom repeated his vow in his native tongue.
“I, Napoleon, take you, Abriana Pranvera Celestina, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will treasure and honor you in the eyes of God, in the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of each another.”
The last line was what had been the matter of such contention. The original verbiage of “I will love you and honor you all the days of my life” was just not comfortable wording for Napoleon. He had never made a promise he hadn’t intended to keep, and to make an oath to Abriana to love her for all the days of his life would be an outright lie. He just couldn’t bring his conscience to an inner acceptance of saying those words to her. Thus had he proposed the version of the vow he ultimately wound up making. The modified last line indeed framed a promise he fully intended on keeping for as long as he and Abriana remained together… and even beyond.
Napoleon was never to learn that it was Mr. Waverly who personally set things in motion to get the new words approved by the Church. This was not a thing the Continental Chief did for U.N.C.L.E.’s purposes. Rather it was something he arranged for the ease of mind of one of his operatives. He was fully cognizant of how much he asked of these young men. They all put much on the line with every enforcement mission. Thus now and again eliminating for them just a bit of mental or emotional pressure was something he considered part of his own mission as a high-level administrator within the Command.
After Abriana made her parallel vow in Italian and in English, the pair exchanged rings blessed by the bishop. With the traditional vocal notation, Napoleon slipped a wide gold band etched with an abstract design of bells, a symbol of protection by God’s saints and angels, upon the third finger, left hand of his bride. Then Abriana followed suit, placing a similar ring on the third finger, left hand of her groom, saying as she did so:
“Napoleone, prendi questo anello come segno del mio amore e di fedeltà. Nel nome del Padre e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo.”
Subsequently she repeated the words in English as well.
“Napoleon, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Together as one, the couple intoned in Italian: “Ti do questo anello, segno di tutto ciò che possiedo.” And in English: “I give you this ring, a token of all I possess.”
“Io ora vi dichiaro marito e moglie. È ora possibile baciare la sposa.” afterwards declared the bishop in a ringing tone.
{Translation: I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.}
Napoleon needed no further invitation. He drew Abriana close to him and kissed her with genuine tenderness. In deference to the sacredness of the venue, only a controlled smattering of applause filled the church.
And so it was done. The rite continued with the lighting of the candle, the prayers of the faithful, the liturgy of the Eucharist, and all other holy facets that marked a full Roman Catholic nuptial mass. Yet the main event was concluded and a strange peace settled upon the spirit of Napoleon Solo.
He didn’t know why. His job was far from finished. He still had no real clue as to what Thrush was hoping to accomplish by involving itself on the sly with the royal family of Nascoste. Yet he suddenly felt as if he would be truly able to protect Abriana from any fallout with regard to those presumably foul plans. He didn’t understand why he should feel any more secure in this now than he had before the wedding had taken place; he just recognized that he did. And in the moment he accepted that recognition with a more than willing heart.
Perhaps he too was being seduced by the romance of a fairytale.
...continued in Act IV and Epilogue...
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