THE CINDERFELLA AFFAIR -- Act II
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section7mfuAnd here we go with Act II
Act II: Then you shall go to the ball!
Tomas Grecco shook his head once more as silent thoughts regarding the current relationship between the Nascosten Grand Princess Abriana and the American Napoleon Solo roughly trampled upon his mental serenity. There was still too much of the romantic girl in Abriana for his liking. Oh, she understood national and international politics quite commendably, especially for one of so young an age. Her father had taught her well, and thus her role as ruler of her island nation had been to date quite effective. Policy on the public stage was never an issue for her. But as to more personal matters? Ah, there her inexperience definitely showed.
Tomas had served as internal affairs minister to Grand Prince Adalfieri, Abriana’s father, for some dozen years. And now he served the current Grand Princess in the same capacity, had done so from the moment her father had passed on and thus passed the scepter of Nascoste into the hands of his eldest daughter. Grecco accounted the Grand Princess an intelligent young woman with many fine qualities that indeed benefited her position. But her rather adolescent fascination with the supposed glories of fairytale-envisioned true love was not one of those qualities.
She believed in the mythos of the “one and only”. She believed in the mysticism of fated meetings. She believed in the magic of “happily ever after”. And now Tomas was left to wonder how much of those qualities she was investing in the physical being of and her emotional bond with Napoleon Solo.
Zamir Continetti walked into the office of the Nascosten Minister of Internal Affairs with several papers in hand. “Tomas,” he addressed that state councilor, “the Princess Adjuvant would like approval to host a family reception two days after the coronation of the Grand Princess. I realize there are celebratory events aplenty on the calendar, but Her Highness feels—” Zamir stopped his verbal explanation short when he realized Tomas was truly not listening to him.
“Your attention wanders, Tomas,” Zamir noted in a friendly manner to the other man.
“I am sorry, Zamir,” Tomas shook himself out of his mental state of preoccupied unease. “You were saying?”
“We can address that later. For the moment I would know what worries you.”
“Napoleon Solo,” declared Grecco quite glumly.
“It was my understanding the background check on the young man came up clean.”
“Squeakily clean. He is who he says he is: familial connections exactly as described; military record exemplary; current position within a world charitable organization. Nothing out-of-place or skewed off-center. All-in-all apparently a most admirable fellow.”
“Then?” prompted Continetti, though he was well aware of the one rub that was creating an uncomfortable raw spot within the mind of his colleague.
Tomas sighed loudly. “He’s an American with no descent from nobility of any kind that we can discover.”
“Ah,” commiserated Zamir. “The Grand Princess’ affection for him is growing into something more serious then?”
“I truly know not,” admitted Grecco. “But given her idealistic persuasions with regard to what constitutes any expression of binding love…” Tomas sighed again.
“Perhaps too much like her father in that,” allowed Zamir.
“Yes, that ill-advised second marriage of his: romantic no doubt, but so impractical from the standpoint of his position as sovereign of Nascoste.”
“Do remember though, my friend, that Nascoste survived intact,” Zamir reminded the other man. “The lady-in-question was even well-liked and well-received by the populace of this country.”
“Yet does the complication of Mergim remain because of that union.”
“Mergim’s ties to Nascoste are rather flimsy, Tomas.”
“Still can the man boast the deep affection of both his stepsisters.”
“True enough, but that is simply a family matter. It has no bearing on Nascoste as a political entity.” Continetti diverted this topic just a hair since he preferred the other man not make mention of the fact the ‘deep affection’ for the troublesome Mergim was surely more pronounced from Donjeta.
“I suppose you’re right, Zamir,” conceded Grecco. “Then again, with the past so often playing prologue to the present, I will be far more tranquil of mind once Napoleon Solo has returned home to his own country.”
“Invite him for a sojourn at the palace!” Donjeta urged her sister with regard to Napoleon Solo, the sole topic of their current excited chatter. “He does represent a global charitable organization, no? So how could he, with any pretense of international astuteness, refuse such a ‘royal summons’? And that way he won’t depart Diamant-Grezzo quite as soon as originally intended.”
“He hasn’t directly mentioned leaving Nascoste, but…” Abriana mulled over the likelihood of Napoleon returning home to the United States. Surely he would be doing that at some point, and likely much sooner than would suit her own desires. “I suppose he can’t stay as a guest in the American Embassy for too much longer. He is just visiting a past associate of his grandfather’s, after all, and he has been in residence there nearly three weeks now.”
“So cut him off at the pass, so to speak,” Donjeta mentally nudged her sister. “We’ll make a fine scheme between the two of us to keep him here in Nascoste,” she added with a conspiratorial smile as the nudge became physical as well.
Abriana grinned at that suggestion. “We always were rather good at plotting together as children,” she remembered.
“We’ll be even better at it now,” insisted Donjeta with a light laugh, “as the goal is so much more significant. After all, Abriana, Napoleon Solo is your one-and-only. Surely you can’t let him just vanish out of your life with no say-so in the matter?”
“I never said he was my one-and-only,” protested Abriana, but her blush gave lie to that protest.
Donjeta laughed once more as she impulsively embraced the other woman. “Oh sister mine, I will admit I do envy you the love of such a man!”
“He does love me, I think,” ventured Abriana with a dreamy expression suffusing her face with tenderness. “I know for certain I do love him.”
“Then there you go!” enthused Donjeta. “If he has captured your heart, dear sister, then we shall capture his continued physical presence in Nascoste! By hook or by crook,” she finalized with their old childhood vow as she extended one bent forefinger toward Abriana.
“By hook or by crook!” swore Abriana in turn as she linked her own bent forefinger with that of her sister.
During the dozenth outing on horseback in which Napoleon Solo joined the Grand Princess Abriana, Princess Adjuvant Donjeta became an added participant. The three rode companionably, their horses moving at a leisurely pace side-by-side. They chatted about this and that, laughing much as they basked in the bright sunshine being showcased by a bout of unusually fine March weather. It had, however, rained quite heavily the night before; thus the ground was notably muddy.
In accordance with the wishes of Her Gracious Highness, the two bodyguards accompanying the trio (Abriana had insisted upon there being just the bare minimum required by Nascosten security law) kept their distance. On a particular soggy patch of terrain, Donjeta’s horse “accidentally” stumbled, tossing the Princess Adjuvant from the saddle to the mucky earth.
Napoleon was beside the prone royal in an instant. “You all right, Highness?” he queried as he aided her in sitting up.
“Nothing hurt but my pride,” she replied. Gamely Donjeta tried to regain her feet, but slid sideways in the mud. “Now I’ve hurt more than my pride,” she subsequently observed with a grimace. “It appears I’ve turned my ankle in this quagmire.” She moved gingerly forward a single step and found the injured ankle would not support her weight, forcing her to lean quite heavily on Napoleon’s arm.
Both bodyguards were on the scene now, quickly dismounting to handle the crisis. “Your mare threw a shoe apparently, Highness,” one remarked after looking over the condition of the horse.
“Well then I surely can’t further ride her, and my ankle is in no condition for the walk back,” Donjeta forwarded matter-of-factly. “I will need to ride your mount, Hawslov,” she informed the bodyguard who had just spoken, “and you will have to guide my mare.”
“Of course, Highness,” Hawslov accepted this task.
“Seems our outing is over for today, Napoleon,” commented Abriana with a deceptively practiced sigh.
“Nonsense, Abriana,” Donjeta rejected that possibility. “No reason you two need return with me. Hawslov will see me right.”
“Highness,” Hawslov acknowledged with a slight bow.
“You sure you’ll be all right, Donjeta?” queried Abriana with seeming uncertainty.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Abriana, it’s only a sprained ankle,” Donjeta dismissed her sister’s over-solicitousness. “You get little enough chance for personal pleasures as it is. Please, do you and Napoleon finish your ride.”
“That will leave only Masterini to safeguard Your Gracious Highness,” Hawslov dutifully reminded his sovereign.
“And that will be quite sufficient for a short stint,” decided Abriana. “Napoleon and I won’t stay out more than another half-hour.”
Masterini nodded his assent, though a bit reluctantly. “No more than a half-hour, Gracious Highness,” he dutifully cautioned Abriana.
With that, Napoleon helped Donjeta into the saddle of Hawslov’s steed as the bodyguard took hold of the bridle of both his own horse and Donjeta’s lamed one. As Hawslov led this contingent back toward the palace stables, Masterini bowed to Abriana and regained his own mount. He then cantered a sufficient distance away from the Grand Princess and Solo to keep them in range of sight while yet suiting Her Gracious Highness’ standing order about giving them a wide berth during these horseback excursions.
As Napoleon swung back into the saddle of his own horse, he remarked knowingly to his royal companion, “You two handled that quite smoothly.”
“Handled what?” asked Abriana in wide-eyed innocence.
“Getting rid of one of the bodyguards,” stated Napoleon with a conspiratorial smirk, “specifically the one who is the more skilled horseman. May I assume you now want the pair of us to elude the remaining, less proficient one?”
Predictably Abriana was blushing as she stammered out, “Was it all so very obvious?”
“Yes,” Napoleon teased. “But I must reveal as well that I am very pleased you just as obviously wish to be alone with me.”
“Would being alone with me truly please you, Napoleon?”
Napoleon set the gaze of his hazel-brown eyes directly and rather longingly upon that of her pale-blue ones. “Yes,” he said, giving his response no wordy adornments for none he knew were needed at this moment.
And so Abriana set off at a full gallop, Napoleon close on the tail of her horse. They guided their steeds in enough intricate turns off side trails and through tangled wooded areas to soon lose sight of Masterini entirely. Finally they stopped in a secreted grove and quickly dismounted.
“We likely haven’t much time before your bodyguard catches on to us and finds this spot,” Solo informed the Princess straightforwardly, “and I certainly don’t intend to waste even a moment of it.”
With that he caught her fully in his arms and kissed her passionately. Seamlessly their lips melded together. After a moment his tongue pressed inside her mouth, pushing and sliding to gain familiarity with every millimeter of those warm, moist precincts. She clung to him, her body tight against his.
Napoleon’s senses were reeling. He hadn’t expected for it to feel this good: to hold her, to kiss her. He didn’t love her; he knew he didn’t. Clara had all of his love. Yet something in Abriana touched him deeply: her sweetness, her vulnerability, her childlike immersion in the fairytale of romance. She brought out in him an intense protectiveness that was stealthily bleeding into his other natural instincts. Thus it was true enough to say in that moment Abriana made emotional contact with Solo’s heart as surely as she was making physical contact with his body.
“Abriana,” he whispered in a half-groan as his mouth momentarily moved away from hers before nuzzling eagerly at the side of her neck. All forms of more ceremonial address faded from his memory. Princess or commoner: it didn’t matter a whit. He desired her: recognized the raw want in his spiritually idealistic soul as surely as that in his biologically reactive body.
Abriana’s breath was a soft caress against his ear. “Stay with me, Napoleon,” she entreated with heartfelt simplicity. “Stay with me.”
The loud sound of a throat being cleared brought them both back down-to-earth. Masterini sat his horse not far from them. The bodyguard said nothing as the couple remounted their own steeds, Napoleon giving Abriana a hand up into her saddle before swinging up into own.
The total silence persisted, contradictorily deafening, as the three rode in tandem back to the palace stables.
Amid the chaos going on two days later, as proper preparations went on to move Napoleon out of the American embassy in Diamant-Grezzo and into the royal palace of Nascoste, Solo managed to sneak in a quarter-hour to give Mr. Waverly a full update regarding his mission.
“The move into the royal residence is definitely a major step in the right direction, Mr. Solo,” the chief acknowledged over U.N.C.L.E.’s dedicated international communications line. “But you must be extremely circumspect once in that environment. Keep your ears open and do set a watchful eye upon Continetti. Charm the ministers of the Grand Princess as much as you can. Since Nascoste is not a constitutional monarchy but an absolute one, there is no requirement of law that she pay heed to their or indeed any outside advice. Still, Abriana like her father is of a modern mindset and prefers to rule within certain parameters of endorsed consent.”
“Yes sir,” Napoleon simply acquiesced.
At present he wasn’t up to providing more verbal feedback. The confusion engendered by the disquieting yearning his latest encounter with Abriana had roused in him was indeed playing and replaying unsettlingly within his mind. Was he being patently disloyal to Clara? Or just deliberately loyal to U.N.C.L.E.? Was his rational awareness of the mission discreetly leading the natural reactions of his body and even of his heart? Or was he physically and emotionally letting some unrealistic fairytale casually overtake his hold on surer reason?
The official invitation for a stay at the palace had arrived not even twenty-four hours after he and Abriana had connected in that first kiss. Delivered by liveried messenger, the authorized request bore not only the Grand Princess’ formal seal but a personal entreaty penned in her own hand beneath the sanctioned signature:
Stay with me
And for the present Napoleon Solo would oblige because U.N.C.L.E. commanded he do so. But what in the end would be the personal consequences of that action, what inside him would change forever because of that steadfast adherence to duty, he knew not and preferred not to dwell upon. Things were what they were and he would just have to deal with them as best he could within the boundaries of any given moment.
“I am Beppe, Mr. Solo,” the man addressed him in but lightly-accented English. “I will be attending to your personal grooming and secretarial needs during your stay in Castello di Marmo Scuro.”
The valet provided him by the Chamberlain of the Royal Household reminded Napoleon quite strongly of the cameriere personale who had served him when he was a boy back in his grandfather’s ambassadorial household in Rome. An older version of course, as this man was at a guess about forty, but nonetheless with the same sense of propriety-fostered reserved decorum. Thankfully though this” gentleman’s gentleman” did not address him in the third person as his long-ago manservant Giacobbe had.
“I can see you are a man of impeccable taste,” Beppe now candidly complimented Solo on his urbane stylishness, something evident even in the long-sleeved white polo, stone-colored chinos and dark gray leather loafers in which Napoleon was currently quite casually outfitted. “Therefore will it, I’m sure, be a pleasure to serve you.”
“I aim to please,” thought Napoleon to himself in amusement. “If you bear in mind that I will expect to be granted total privacy when I expressly ask for it, I imagine we shall get on quite well, Beppe.”
“Be assured I am not here to spy upon you in any fashion, Mr. Solo,” the valet cleared the air straightaway. “Such covert shenanigans are not in my character, which is likely why Her Gracious Highness chose me for this particular duty. She has informed her ministers outright that you are here at her express request and that they are to honor without suspicion or hesitance her purposeful trust in making such a personal appeal to you.”
Napoleon blinked in astonishment. “Very magnanimous of her to be sure.”
“Our sovereign is indeed a very magnanimous lady,” Beppe agreed, “and, if I may be so bold as to make mention, seems to have developed a gentle affection for you.”
“As have I for her,” Napoleon noted without so much as a single iota of dishonesty, as an undeniable affection for the Grand Princess of Nascoste had in fact been growing steadily in him during the sparse few weeks of their acquaintance.
“A fine thing in my opinion,” Beppe ventured with all the respectful audacity of a long-time domestic who feels a certain possessive protectiveness toward his employers. “Her Gracious Highness remains too much alone. Youth should be a time for camaraderie and laughter.”
“Yet I imagine such difficult to attain for one in such a lofty position.”
“Just so, Mr. Solo,” Beppe conceded. “But now you are here and all is as it should be.”
“I thank you sincerely for the vote of confidence, Beppe.”
“Do nothing to make me regret that support, Mr. Solo,” cautioned the valet in all seriousness. “Her Gracious Highness deserves all the best life can bring her: be that in experiences or companionship.”
Napoleon felt a pang of conscience with regard to what he knew he must do. In light of that, could he really give Abriana even the smallest piece of the best of himself?
“You set the bar high, Beppe,” he remarked a bit anxiously.
“It all things, Mr. Solo, it is paramount to aim high. Yes, perhaps it presents the possibility for bigger failure, but also for larger success. So in the end the risk is worth the taking, isn’t it?”
Yes: Napoleon decided after but a mere few seconds of contemplation on this score. Aiming to be but middling in anything was a coward’s way. And he wasn’t a coward. So he would seek the utmost goals with every ounce of vim and vigor in himself. For U.N.C.L.E.’s needs, for his own satisfaction of mind, and for Abriana’s at least temporary content.
“Damn right, Beppe,” he voiced firmly. “Risk can provide its own reward.”
Beppe nodded briskly before turning the conversation onto more immediate matters. “You are to luncheon in a few hours with Her Gracious Highness: the Grand Princess Abriana, Her Highness: the Princess Adjuvant Donjeta, the Grand Princess’ Minister of Internal Affairs: Tomas Grecco, and Her Highness’ Accesso all'Orecchio: Zamir Continetti.”
“Access to the Ear?” Napoleon translated the odd title of Continetti, pretending ignorance of the nuances of Nascosten governmental structure. His current goal was to get Beppe talking a bit about Continetti. Domestics, he recognized quite well, were often privy to much internal household tittle-tattle.
“A traditional position, Mr. Solo, in the entourage of any Prince or Princess Adjuvant,” explained Beppe. “Such a councilor is the time-honored liaison for the Adjuvant to gain the attention of the reigning sovereign. Though, in the case of Signore Continetti, that title perhaps more describes his particular situation with Her Highness, the Princess Donjeta. She is very reliant upon his counsel.”
“And the other man mentioned? The Minister of Internal Affairs?”
“Signore Grecco,” Beppe readily provided the name. “He is the first advisor to the Grand Princess herself and a noble man in every respect. His influence over Her Gracious Highness does not extend to the same length as does that of Signore Continetti over the Princess Adjuvant, however. The Grand Princess Abriana will take her first minister’s opinion under advisement when making any decision, but at the end of the day her decisions are her own.”
“Like those of her father before her,” noted Solo.
“The monarchy of Nascoste is one with few limits, Mr. Solo, most of those existing only through the courtesy of the monarchs themselves. Yet in all honesty I have to say there have been but few truly selfish and tyrannical rulers in the history of Nascoste.”
“A fortunate fall of the dice,” Napoleon warned sagely.
“Or perhaps it is that the rulers of Nascoste teach their children well,” countered Beppe with a teasing smile.
Napoleon smiled in return. “The conformist results of predictable parenting?”
“Indeed,” finalized the manservant with a small wink, something totally unexpected given the restrained nature of his overall demeanor.
Napoleon laughed lightly, liking this tiny bit of surprising “cheek” in the valet that surely the Giacobbe of his childhood had never displayed to him. Yes, he really would get on with this somewhat unconventional gentleman’s gentleman. Abriana had matched them well, with a keen understanding of the personalities of both men.
“All right then, back to business, Beppe,” Solo returned to the pressing requirements of proper attire for the upcoming luncheon. “This to-do is more informal than formal, I take it?”
Beppe nodded. “A rather intimate gathering. Suit-and-tie of course, but nothing more elaborate.”
With that Beppe opened the wardrobe where Napoleon’s rather impressive travel stock of clothing (unquestionably a necessity for this mission) had already been properly hung on satin-padded hangers or folded and stored in cedar-lined drawers as prescribed by the form of each garment. Surveying the contents within by both sight and touch, the valet ultimately suggested in a manner that was more than a suggestion, “The mocha Italian wool-and-silk suit I think: the perfect means to highlight your natural coloring. With it: a cream-colored cotton-and-silk blend poplin shirt with a Windsor-spread collar and link-cuffed sleeves. No need for full French cuffs on this occasion. As to the tie: gold silk, but not too bright in hue nor overly glossy in texture, and perhaps decorated with a discreet pattern.”
“Perhaps the tawny gold one with the pale blue swirling pattern?” suggested Napoleon in turn with a smirk of amusement. He’d been dressing himself rather successfully for a goodly number of years now, after all.
“Yes, an excellent choice,” decided Beppe as he removed the tie in question from the wardrobe’s tie rack and laid it over one of the dowels on the dressing room valet stand. “Balmorals in a medium brown leather and dark brown socks of course,” finalized the gentleman’s gentleman as he further rummaged inside the wardrobe and removed the essential items, placing them appropriately on the footrest of the stand. “I will take the suit and the shirt downstairs to be pressed after drawing your bath.”
With that the experienced manservant moved off into the bathroom, leaving Solo still smirking as he undressed. Depositing his discarded clothes in a readily accessible hamper, Solo donned a thick terry robe as he anticipated a luxurious soak in the deep claw-foot tub he espied through the open doorway of the bath.
“Rank – or even a certain nearness to rank – doth have its privileges,” he remarked with a relaxed chuckle as he prepared to thoroughly relish the pampering.
As Napoleon was led by one of the household servants into the small (in relative palace terms) private dining room used for family meals and other informal gatherings by the royals, the Grand Princess rose unexpectedly from her chair and walked over to personally greet him.
“How very handsome you do look, Napoleon!” Abriana complimented him as she pushed herself up on tiptoe to deposit an affectionate kiss on his cheek, aided by Solo bending a bit to her level when he realized her intent.
“Beppe is a man of extraordinary sartorial genius, Gracious Highness,” Napoleon asserted with a sly wink at the Grand Princess that set her broadly grinning.
The two councilors, who had risen from their own seats upon the standing of their sovereign, observed the personal ease between the young couple with differing emotions. In Grecco it raised a certain degree of circumspection, while in Continetti it engendered a definite measure of smugness.
“I told you, my dear, he was quite fit for public scrutiny,” commented Donjeta with a ready smile as she followed her sister’s lead, walking up to Napoleon and planting a friendly kiss on his opposite cheek.
“Come and sit,” inveigled Abriana as she slipped an arm into Solo’s and guided him toward the table. “As this is your first day as a guest within the Castello di Marmo Scuro, I have arranged for us to dine on a fine tagliata di manzo this luncheon. I know it is one of your favorites.”
Napoleon turned a startled gaze to her. “How did you come to know that, Gracious Highness? I’m sure I never mentioned it to you.”
Abriana’s pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she replied, “A Grand Princess does have her confidential sources.”
Napoleon chuckled. “And what other tidbits of information have you collected about me, spia più principesca?” he subsequently asked with an answering mischievous sparkle in his own hazel brown eyes.
{Translation: most princessly spy
“Never enough to suit my boundless curiosity,” came Abriana’s partly teasing and partly serious retort. “I would know everything about you, Napoleon,” she then admitted with perhaps a touch of shy innuendo in the revelation.
That admission on her part once again sent a pang of emotion most assuredly bordering on guilt running through the mind and heart of Napoleon Solo. She was psychologically opening herself up to him, without any of the hesitation vital to providing a fallback position of safe regal diffidence. While he had to keep himself in the main closed off from her.
Napoleon corralled his wayward conscience into submission by focusing his gaze momentarily upon one of the cufflinks he wore. It was an umbrella disk of Florentine-finished gold centered with a small blue star-sapphire. He had purchased the set that past December in Anegada just after graduating from U.N.C.L.E. Survival School top of his class. Now looking at one of the pair served to remind him that this mission delegated by the Command had a benign purpose, that he wasn’t taking part in this uncompromising charade of “hearts and flowers” for selfish or malicious reasons.
The awkwardness of Napoleon’s situation at that moment was blessedly relieved by Grecco’s verbal prompt of “Your Gracious Highness, we keep the servers most discourteously at heel.”
With a quick glance around the room where several servants stood patiently at the ready to perform their assigned tasks, Abriana acknowledged, albeit a bit reluctantly, “Yes, yes of course.” And with that she left Napoleon standing behind his own chair as she went once more to the head of the table and regained her seat, the others seating themselves immediately afterwards.
As principal guest, Solo was seated to the right of the Grand Princess, with the Princess Adjuvant seated to his right. The Minister of Internal Affairs was seated to the left of the Grand Princess and thus across from Napoleon. While the Accesso all'Orecchio was seated to Grecco’s left and therefore across from the Princess Adjuvant. The Grand Princess informally made the necessary introductions between Napoleon and the two cabinet ministers as the first course of cucumber consommé was set before them all.
In his late-fifties, Tomas Grecco was a smallish man with a non-audacious though well-tailored manner of dress. His sandy hair was peppered with a plentitude of gray, both on his head and in the short, neatly-trimmed beard he sported. He was softly but very precisely spoken, reminiscent of someone who was part of the intelligentsia of academia. From the dossiers he had perused before the mission, Solo knew Grecco came from noble Nascosten bloodlines, was considered possessed of an astute political mind, and that the councilor’s dedication to his nation was openly declared as unparalleled. As well the Minister of Internal Affairs had a calming way about him that made one immediately comfortable in his company.
In contrast Zamir Continetti was a giant of man, at least six-and-half feet in height and very likely more. The minister’s custom-made clothes did little to disguise the underlying heavily muscled frame that bespoke of the sturdy Albanian peasant stock of his birth heritage. Clean-shaven, his countenance nonetheless at this midday hour already showed the beginnings of a noticeable five-o’clock shadow. He definitely displayed a penchant for flashy jewelry, attested to by the numerous gem-encrusted rings he wore on his fingers, as well as the glitteringly diamond-accented bar that held in place his tie and an equally glittering multi-stone stickpin of the Nascosten royal coat-of-arms that decorated his lapel. From the U.N.C.L.E. intelligence files, Solo was familiar with the fact that Continetti was some sixty years old. Yet he appeared nowhere near that age. This impression was only enhanced by the man’s midnight black hair that displayed not a single strand of gray, though of course he likely made necessary use of a dye bottle to achieve that particular wonder. Still, there was no denying the Accesso all'Orecchio was indeed an impressive physical presence.
The luncheon moved along pleasantly enough, with the food deliciously satisfying and the dialogue agreeably relaxed. Napoleon allowed his recollections of smaller official dinner parties within the various embassies in which his grandfather had resided as top representative of the U.S. government to guide his words as well as his actions. He was no stranger to diplomacy, whether in a social or political setting.
“So this worldwide charitable organization by which you are employed,” Tomas Grecco continued the chitchat that had settled, not exactly to Solo’s peace of mind though he betrayed nothing, upon Napoleon’s current career, “provides compassionate relief to put-upon peoples?”
“Various forms of humanitarian aid, yes,” Napoleon smoothly let this public description of U.N.C.L.E. stand. After all, it wasn’t an outright lie. Of course none of those at the table knew him as an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. with which all of them had in truth at least a vague familiarity. The organization that employed him was known to them by another name entirely, that of one of the Command’s submersive public entities.
“No direct monetary support?” questioned Donjeta pointedly.
“No, not as a rule.”
“Nor military assistance in the way of weaponry or equipment?” further prompted the Princess Adjuvant.
“Never. The intent is to better the state of the world as a whole, not worsen it.”
“Yet aren’t there situations where providing such things could indeed improve the global condition?” Donjeta pressed.
“Begging your pardon for the bluntness of my query, but improve for whom, Highness?” Napoleon inquired straight-to-the-fore. “Warfare of any kind seldom benefits the populace of the nations involved.”
“You are an American, Napoleon,” Donjeta went for her own point with equal bluntness. “You fought for your country in Korea. Surely you understand that certain threats – Communism in that case and many others at the present time – to continuing civilized well-being are worth using any means to contain?”
“Donjeta,” warned the Grand Princess sharply, “you know how I dislike political talk at private table.”
“I’ll answer the question, Gracious Highness,” Napoleon disallowed Abriana’s intervention in his behalf. “Highness,” he then directed his response to Donjeta as his eyes unwaveringly met hers, “what I learned in Korea is that political ideologies have little to do with humanitarian goals. One man’s ambrosia of spirit is another man’s poison of heart. Therefore in the end you just cannot mix universal ethics with dogmatic xenophobia. Attempting to do so becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom for the salvation of mankind as a whole.”
Donjeta was silent for a few moments after Napoleon’s declaration, her manner seeming a bit put-out. Abriana, however, appeared discreetly pleased, as indeed did Tomas Grecco. Zamir Continetti remained completely noncommittal in expression. “More precautious than the garden-variety Thrush power-monger, it would seem,” Napoleon summed up the man mentally.
It was Donjeta, more than likely wordlessly prompted by Continetti, who finally broke the somewhat gauche stillness by stating plainly, “You are a man of strong opinions, Napoleon.”
“I apologize if I have given any offense, Highness.”
“No offense, merely food for thought,” Donjeta verbally dismissed the momentary unease at table.
“Most generous, Highness,” Napoleon acknowledged with a slight bow of his head in the direction of the Princess Adjuvant.
After that somewhat thorny topic, conversation returned to more neutral subjects. Yet did Napoleon take particular note of the subsequent covertly exchanged glances between the Princess Adjuvant and her Accesso all'Orecchio.
“He will be utterly useless to us in persuading Abriana to see the moral rightness of our viewpoint,” Princess Adjuvant Donjeta complained bitterly to her Accesso all’Orecchio once within the privacy of Continetti’s palace office.
“He is become, like many young men once they experience the trials of war, an optimistic idealist. I have seen this many times. In the end such lofty ideas cannot persist,” Zamir calmly placated the inexperienced royal under his experienced wing.
“I do not believe him a coward, Zamir,” stated Donjeta certainly.
“I do not account him in the least a coward, Highness,” Continetti extrapolated his own position. “I believe Mr. Napoleon Solo would fight to the death for what he envisions as right. It is just that his vision of right is perhaps too universally abstract to account for worldly practicalities. In my life have I come in contact with many such men.”
And it was perhaps this explanatory reflection by Continetti that raised the first flag of suspicion, though in the moment he did not note that flag going up inside his own head.
“What we need from Mr. Solo is simply for him to make Abriana his wife,” Zamir forwarded those ‘worldly practicalities’ in this particular venture. “As Crown Princess, you would be able to do much more in working toward our goal in Albania than is possible with your current status, Highness.”
“True,” agreed Donjeta. “And Abriana does love Napoleon. She has herself confided that to me. So we would be doing much good and little harm by promoting a union between the pair.”
“Thus we simply let nature take its course. With Mr. Solo staying here in the palace, he and the Grand Princess will be put much more in each other’s direct path and therefore will more often seek out each other’s personal company. Such is always the way of things with romantic attraction between young people.”
“I do myself like Napoleon, Zamir,” admitted Donjeta. “I would have no qualms with having him as a brother-in-law.”
Zamir chuckled amusedly. “So everything works in our favor.”
“Meaning God does Himself approve of our plan.”
Continetti made no comment to that assertion. Whether God approved or not, Thrush most certainly would, and that for him was the crux of the matter.
Because much of her time was occupied with matters of state and details regarding the ceremony of her upcoming coronation, Abriana procured for Napoleon’s especial use a French-make catamaran. The Grand Princess did not want Solo becoming bored in the generally restrictive atmosphere of the palace. Thus did she aim to keep him in good spirits by providing him a means to indulge in his favorite pastime. Sailing the small but yare craft over the blue waters of the Adriatic she surmised could all but guarantee this. And the personal enjoyment of his nautical hobby within the supplied boat also offered him a measure of privacy not possible in the Castello di Marmo Scuro with its bustling domestic and governmental staff.
Accordingly the days quickly fell into a pattern where Solo and the Grand Princess went out on an approximately hour-long riding jaunt shortly after breakfast; then Abriana attended to the business of running her nation before the two lunched together most often. After lunch Abriana would return to her royal tasks while Napoleon set out alone on the catamaran for several hours. They would meet again for dinner, which was sometimes an informal event but just as often a formal affair with Solo serving as Her Gracious Highness’ official escort. If any hours remained before needing to retire for the night, the pair would sit together in one of the private parlors of the palace. Sometimes they played chess; sometimes they played cards; sometimes they watched a bit of a televised newscast; sometimes they listened to music; yet most often they simply talked.
Abriana found these exchanges between them, which ran the gambit from extremely lighthearted to seriously weighty topics, completely addictive. She absolutely adored talking with Napoleon. He was intelligent and witty; he cared deeply about the circumstances of the world and its peoples; he could charm and cajole, but he could just as easily engage and excite. He had a wicked earth-bound sense of humor that teased and tantalized without ever breaking the boundaries of mental comfort, and an uncanny spirit-bound ability that soothed or sympathized always within the parameters most suited to the emotional climate. Every single one of these precious moments between the two of them propelled the Grand Princess deeper and deeper into the throes of genuine love.
As to the physical side of the equation, Abriana longed to be one with the man. She wanted his arms around her, his lips fastened on hers, their bodies joined in coital passion. She was fascinated by the deceptive strength she sensed in all of his physical being whenever they managed a discreet moment to eagerly embrace or clandestinely cuddle. The classically chiseled cut of his profile often left her rapt in something embarrassingly akin to idol worship. The mischief and compassion that could so easily alternate within the hazel-brown depths of his eyes made her actually shiver with pleasure. And his hair, dark as deepest night and soft as smoothest velvet, created an endless desire in her, one she could but rarely permit herself, to touch and stroke and pet.
So winter glided smoothly into spring, and to Abriana the promise inherent in the new season had never seemed more inspiring.
Napoleon made practical use of the solitude granted him during his outings on the catamaran to keep in contact by communicator with U.N.C.L.E. As Solo was a private American citizen, who was merely a current guest of the Nascosten royal family, there was no prerequisite for bodyguards of any kind. And the boat could only accommodate two people in any case. Napoleon was permitted to wear his own holstered semiautomatic, since his sharpshooting skills had been verified, and that was as much security as was considered needful under the circumstances. This suited Solo’s own needs perfectly as he could, without any threat of being eavesdropped or spied upon, update the status of his assignment while afloat on the open sea.
More often than not, Mr. Waverly made himself available for these reports. The mission was such a delicate one that the Continental Chief preferred to hear of Solo’s progress directly from the source rather than through organizationally abridged rundowns.
“I’m not sure what to make of Donjeta’s attitude regarding what she terms as all people’s essential right of self-decision with regard to political systems,” Napoleon this day summarized for Waverly’s benefit. “It’s an idea I agree with in essence, but she seems to think it, therefore, the world’s obligation to afford people seen as somehow lacking in this right any and all means to attain such.”
“Any and all means? Including the clandestine furnishing of arms and monetary funding?” queried Waverly pointedly.
Since the incident at his first informal luncheon in Castello di Marmo Scuro, Solo had been making it a priority to engage the Princess Adjuvant in casual conversation whenever possible. The nature of what she had particularly asked him on that initial occasion had raised nagging questions in his mind, questions he recognized it was part of his mission to answer.
“Yes sir,” he therefore replied with absolute certainty. “She seems to have no concept of the possible price in human terms of such free-for-all methods. And there is just… Hard to explain, sir, but hers seems a worldview based more on personal aspirations than purely ideological ones.”
“Her father, in his youth, was involved in the Albanian Revolt of 1910,” Mr. Waverly supplied vital information. “That was the beginning of that country’s break from Ottoman rule.”
“When he was sixteen,” Napoleon recalled from the dossiers he had studied before beginning his assignment, “and much against his own father’s wishes.”
“Yes, he snuck into Albania by small boat and was, for a time, considered drowned at sea. He was discovered in the group of insurgents at the Kačanik Pass blocking the railway to Skopje, and taken prisoner by the Ottoman government. It took quite a feat of international diplomacy on the part of his father, the then Grand Prince of Nascoste, to get him returned to his native country.”
“I understand that, during his time with the insurgents, he met the Albanian woman who would later become his second wife,” Napoleon remarked.
“The Grand Consort Ljena,” Waverly readily furnished the name.
“Stepmother to Abriana and Donjeta,” added Solo speculatively.
“Yes, but there were never any issues in that regard,” the chief countered the course of his agent’s speculations. “His daughters were both quite young, just five and three I believe, at the time Grand Prince Adalfieri wed Ljena. They didn’t remember their mother, the Grand Princess Trillare, who had died in childbirth when Donjeta was born. No friction thus existed in the royal family when Ljena became part of it. She was undoubtedly fond of both girls and they were apparently equally fond of her.”
“Abriana has mentioned her in passing, and always with affection,” Napoleon conceded. “Ljena died some half-dozen years ago; that right?”
“Correct, Mr. Solo. Her passing was deeply mourned not only by her husband and stepdaughters, but by the people of Nascoste as a whole. She had quite endeared herself to the national populace over the decade of her marriage.”
“She was related to Ismail Qemali, wasn’t she?” Solo made reference to Albania’s nationalist hero and that country’s first Prime Minister during its brief era of independence.
“Distantly. A cousin of some sort. She was born into a wealthy Muslim family, but converted to Roman Catholicism sometime after the 1910 revolt. Supposedly she said years later the reason she did so had less to do with religious convictions than with political ones. According to her own blunt declarations in this regard, she wanted to detach herself completely from anything that could be related to the Ottoman rule in Albania.”
“Ah. Perhaps then she instilled the personal approach toward political convictions into her younger stepdaughter?”
“A reasonable assumption, Mr. Solo, but it does little to get us the answers we need. To wit: why is Thrush so interested in the Nascosten royal family, and for what purpose are they seeking to utilize any possible ties to that family?
“Continetti is cunning to a fault,” complained Napoleon unhappily. “Whatever dealings he has with Thrush, he is keeping close to the vest. I haven’t come across any real hint as to what might be brewing on that backburner.”
All Solo’s attempts at covert skullduggery in laying possible verbal traps for the Accesso all’Orecchio to catch him perhaps in an unguarded word had been hopelessly unsuccessful. As well Solo hadn’t yet discovered any way to directly spy or eavesdrop upon Continetti during his conferences with the Princess Adjuvant. Entrance to the man’s office was tightly restricted, and Napoleon had to retain an outward show of nonchalance and disinterest in the governmental workings of Nascoste.
Solo sighed in frustration. “This is a puzzle with just too many pieces still missing.”
“And you will only get at those pieces through closer connection with the Nascosten royal family, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly advised with undisguised adamancy. “I understand from outside sources that the Grand Princess has been showing a marked affection for you even in public,” he further took up this tack in the discussion.
Napoleon swallowed hard in an attempt to clear an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “She seems partial to my company, yes sir, but we are seldom alone. Thus conjuring up a situation sufficiently intimate to arouse in her an irresistible impulse toward marriage is proving a bit difficult. I am making slow-but-steady progress in that direction though.”
“Not good enough, Mr. Solo,” judged the Continental Chief doggedly. “Goddamn man, get the thing done! I’ve certainly overheard tales enough of your romantic prowess from the female members of this organization to suspect this is not an overwhelming challenge for you.”
Shocked by Waverly’s bold assertion, it was all Napoleon could do to respond with a restrained, “Yes sir.”
“We understand each other then, young man. Time is a commodity that cannot be reclaimed. Therefore, get on posthaste with claiming the Nascosten Grand Princess as your bride. That will at the very least account for one less niggling item over which I need lose sleep. There are surely enough of those in my head as it is, what with all the ongoing negotiations with the Soviet government regarding obtaining an agent for training within the Command enforcement ranks.”
“Relations a bit constrained, I take it?” Like most of those in Section II, Solo was intently interested in what would happen if and when a Russian operative was added into their midst. Thus, perhaps his question was ill-advised, but it was surely understandable under the circumstances.
“Mr. Solo, you need only concern yourself with ‘unconstraining’ relations with the Grand Princess of Nascoste,” the Number 1 in Section I pronounced testily. “Waverly out.”
“Those negotiations with the Soviets must be playing out quite badly,” spontaneously thought Napoleon as he detached the cord from the wireless radio connection and disassembled the communicator, turning it once more into a cigarette case before unsuspecting eyes.
...continued in Act III...
Act II: Then you shall go to the ball!
Tomas Grecco shook his head once more as silent thoughts regarding the current relationship between the Nascosten Grand Princess Abriana and the American Napoleon Solo roughly trampled upon his mental serenity. There was still too much of the romantic girl in Abriana for his liking. Oh, she understood national and international politics quite commendably, especially for one of so young an age. Her father had taught her well, and thus her role as ruler of her island nation had been to date quite effective. Policy on the public stage was never an issue for her. But as to more personal matters? Ah, there her inexperience definitely showed.
Tomas had served as internal affairs minister to Grand Prince Adalfieri, Abriana’s father, for some dozen years. And now he served the current Grand Princess in the same capacity, had done so from the moment her father had passed on and thus passed the scepter of Nascoste into the hands of his eldest daughter. Grecco accounted the Grand Princess an intelligent young woman with many fine qualities that indeed benefited her position. But her rather adolescent fascination with the supposed glories of fairytale-envisioned true love was not one of those qualities.
She believed in the mythos of the “one and only”. She believed in the mysticism of fated meetings. She believed in the magic of “happily ever after”. And now Tomas was left to wonder how much of those qualities she was investing in the physical being of and her emotional bond with Napoleon Solo.
Zamir Continetti walked into the office of the Nascosten Minister of Internal Affairs with several papers in hand. “Tomas,” he addressed that state councilor, “the Princess Adjuvant would like approval to host a family reception two days after the coronation of the Grand Princess. I realize there are celebratory events aplenty on the calendar, but Her Highness feels—” Zamir stopped his verbal explanation short when he realized Tomas was truly not listening to him.
“Your attention wanders, Tomas,” Zamir noted in a friendly manner to the other man.
“I am sorry, Zamir,” Tomas shook himself out of his mental state of preoccupied unease. “You were saying?”
“We can address that later. For the moment I would know what worries you.”
“Napoleon Solo,” declared Grecco quite glumly.
“It was my understanding the background check on the young man came up clean.”
“Squeakily clean. He is who he says he is: familial connections exactly as described; military record exemplary; current position within a world charitable organization. Nothing out-of-place or skewed off-center. All-in-all apparently a most admirable fellow.”
“Then?” prompted Continetti, though he was well aware of the one rub that was creating an uncomfortable raw spot within the mind of his colleague.
Tomas sighed loudly. “He’s an American with no descent from nobility of any kind that we can discover.”
“Ah,” commiserated Zamir. “The Grand Princess’ affection for him is growing into something more serious then?”
“I truly know not,” admitted Grecco. “But given her idealistic persuasions with regard to what constitutes any expression of binding love…” Tomas sighed again.
“Perhaps too much like her father in that,” allowed Zamir.
“Yes, that ill-advised second marriage of his: romantic no doubt, but so impractical from the standpoint of his position as sovereign of Nascoste.”
“Do remember though, my friend, that Nascoste survived intact,” Zamir reminded the other man. “The lady-in-question was even well-liked and well-received by the populace of this country.”
“Yet does the complication of Mergim remain because of that union.”
“Mergim’s ties to Nascoste are rather flimsy, Tomas.”
“Still can the man boast the deep affection of both his stepsisters.”
“True enough, but that is simply a family matter. It has no bearing on Nascoste as a political entity.” Continetti diverted this topic just a hair since he preferred the other man not make mention of the fact the ‘deep affection’ for the troublesome Mergim was surely more pronounced from Donjeta.
“I suppose you’re right, Zamir,” conceded Grecco. “Then again, with the past so often playing prologue to the present, I will be far more tranquil of mind once Napoleon Solo has returned home to his own country.”
“Invite him for a sojourn at the palace!” Donjeta urged her sister with regard to Napoleon Solo, the sole topic of their current excited chatter. “He does represent a global charitable organization, no? So how could he, with any pretense of international astuteness, refuse such a ‘royal summons’? And that way he won’t depart Diamant-Grezzo quite as soon as originally intended.”
“He hasn’t directly mentioned leaving Nascoste, but…” Abriana mulled over the likelihood of Napoleon returning home to the United States. Surely he would be doing that at some point, and likely much sooner than would suit her own desires. “I suppose he can’t stay as a guest in the American Embassy for too much longer. He is just visiting a past associate of his grandfather’s, after all, and he has been in residence there nearly three weeks now.”
“So cut him off at the pass, so to speak,” Donjeta mentally nudged her sister. “We’ll make a fine scheme between the two of us to keep him here in Nascoste,” she added with a conspiratorial smile as the nudge became physical as well.
Abriana grinned at that suggestion. “We always were rather good at plotting together as children,” she remembered.
“We’ll be even better at it now,” insisted Donjeta with a light laugh, “as the goal is so much more significant. After all, Abriana, Napoleon Solo is your one-and-only. Surely you can’t let him just vanish out of your life with no say-so in the matter?”
“I never said he was my one-and-only,” protested Abriana, but her blush gave lie to that protest.
Donjeta laughed once more as she impulsively embraced the other woman. “Oh sister mine, I will admit I do envy you the love of such a man!”
“He does love me, I think,” ventured Abriana with a dreamy expression suffusing her face with tenderness. “I know for certain I do love him.”
“Then there you go!” enthused Donjeta. “If he has captured your heart, dear sister, then we shall capture his continued physical presence in Nascoste! By hook or by crook,” she finalized with their old childhood vow as she extended one bent forefinger toward Abriana.
“By hook or by crook!” swore Abriana in turn as she linked her own bent forefinger with that of her sister.
During the dozenth outing on horseback in which Napoleon Solo joined the Grand Princess Abriana, Princess Adjuvant Donjeta became an added participant. The three rode companionably, their horses moving at a leisurely pace side-by-side. They chatted about this and that, laughing much as they basked in the bright sunshine being showcased by a bout of unusually fine March weather. It had, however, rained quite heavily the night before; thus the ground was notably muddy.
In accordance with the wishes of Her Gracious Highness, the two bodyguards accompanying the trio (Abriana had insisted upon there being just the bare minimum required by Nascosten security law) kept their distance. On a particular soggy patch of terrain, Donjeta’s horse “accidentally” stumbled, tossing the Princess Adjuvant from the saddle to the mucky earth.
Napoleon was beside the prone royal in an instant. “You all right, Highness?” he queried as he aided her in sitting up.
“Nothing hurt but my pride,” she replied. Gamely Donjeta tried to regain her feet, but slid sideways in the mud. “Now I’ve hurt more than my pride,” she subsequently observed with a grimace. “It appears I’ve turned my ankle in this quagmire.” She moved gingerly forward a single step and found the injured ankle would not support her weight, forcing her to lean quite heavily on Napoleon’s arm.
Both bodyguards were on the scene now, quickly dismounting to handle the crisis. “Your mare threw a shoe apparently, Highness,” one remarked after looking over the condition of the horse.
“Well then I surely can’t further ride her, and my ankle is in no condition for the walk back,” Donjeta forwarded matter-of-factly. “I will need to ride your mount, Hawslov,” she informed the bodyguard who had just spoken, “and you will have to guide my mare.”
“Of course, Highness,” Hawslov accepted this task.
“Seems our outing is over for today, Napoleon,” commented Abriana with a deceptively practiced sigh.
“Nonsense, Abriana,” Donjeta rejected that possibility. “No reason you two need return with me. Hawslov will see me right.”
“Highness,” Hawslov acknowledged with a slight bow.
“You sure you’ll be all right, Donjeta?” queried Abriana with seeming uncertainty.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Abriana, it’s only a sprained ankle,” Donjeta dismissed her sister’s over-solicitousness. “You get little enough chance for personal pleasures as it is. Please, do you and Napoleon finish your ride.”
“That will leave only Masterini to safeguard Your Gracious Highness,” Hawslov dutifully reminded his sovereign.
“And that will be quite sufficient for a short stint,” decided Abriana. “Napoleon and I won’t stay out more than another half-hour.”
Masterini nodded his assent, though a bit reluctantly. “No more than a half-hour, Gracious Highness,” he dutifully cautioned Abriana.
With that, Napoleon helped Donjeta into the saddle of Hawslov’s steed as the bodyguard took hold of the bridle of both his own horse and Donjeta’s lamed one. As Hawslov led this contingent back toward the palace stables, Masterini bowed to Abriana and regained his own mount. He then cantered a sufficient distance away from the Grand Princess and Solo to keep them in range of sight while yet suiting Her Gracious Highness’ standing order about giving them a wide berth during these horseback excursions.
As Napoleon swung back into the saddle of his own horse, he remarked knowingly to his royal companion, “You two handled that quite smoothly.”
“Handled what?” asked Abriana in wide-eyed innocence.
“Getting rid of one of the bodyguards,” stated Napoleon with a conspiratorial smirk, “specifically the one who is the more skilled horseman. May I assume you now want the pair of us to elude the remaining, less proficient one?”
Predictably Abriana was blushing as she stammered out, “Was it all so very obvious?”
“Yes,” Napoleon teased. “But I must reveal as well that I am very pleased you just as obviously wish to be alone with me.”
“Would being alone with me truly please you, Napoleon?”
Napoleon set the gaze of his hazel-brown eyes directly and rather longingly upon that of her pale-blue ones. “Yes,” he said, giving his response no wordy adornments for none he knew were needed at this moment.
And so Abriana set off at a full gallop, Napoleon close on the tail of her horse. They guided their steeds in enough intricate turns off side trails and through tangled wooded areas to soon lose sight of Masterini entirely. Finally they stopped in a secreted grove and quickly dismounted.
“We likely haven’t much time before your bodyguard catches on to us and finds this spot,” Solo informed the Princess straightforwardly, “and I certainly don’t intend to waste even a moment of it.”
With that he caught her fully in his arms and kissed her passionately. Seamlessly their lips melded together. After a moment his tongue pressed inside her mouth, pushing and sliding to gain familiarity with every millimeter of those warm, moist precincts. She clung to him, her body tight against his.
Napoleon’s senses were reeling. He hadn’t expected for it to feel this good: to hold her, to kiss her. He didn’t love her; he knew he didn’t. Clara had all of his love. Yet something in Abriana touched him deeply: her sweetness, her vulnerability, her childlike immersion in the fairytale of romance. She brought out in him an intense protectiveness that was stealthily bleeding into his other natural instincts. Thus it was true enough to say in that moment Abriana made emotional contact with Solo’s heart as surely as she was making physical contact with his body.
“Abriana,” he whispered in a half-groan as his mouth momentarily moved away from hers before nuzzling eagerly at the side of her neck. All forms of more ceremonial address faded from his memory. Princess or commoner: it didn’t matter a whit. He desired her: recognized the raw want in his spiritually idealistic soul as surely as that in his biologically reactive body.
Abriana’s breath was a soft caress against his ear. “Stay with me, Napoleon,” she entreated with heartfelt simplicity. “Stay with me.”
The loud sound of a throat being cleared brought them both back down-to-earth. Masterini sat his horse not far from them. The bodyguard said nothing as the couple remounted their own steeds, Napoleon giving Abriana a hand up into her saddle before swinging up into own.
The total silence persisted, contradictorily deafening, as the three rode in tandem back to the palace stables.
Amid the chaos going on two days later, as proper preparations went on to move Napoleon out of the American embassy in Diamant-Grezzo and into the royal palace of Nascoste, Solo managed to sneak in a quarter-hour to give Mr. Waverly a full update regarding his mission.
“The move into the royal residence is definitely a major step in the right direction, Mr. Solo,” the chief acknowledged over U.N.C.L.E.’s dedicated international communications line. “But you must be extremely circumspect once in that environment. Keep your ears open and do set a watchful eye upon Continetti. Charm the ministers of the Grand Princess as much as you can. Since Nascoste is not a constitutional monarchy but an absolute one, there is no requirement of law that she pay heed to their or indeed any outside advice. Still, Abriana like her father is of a modern mindset and prefers to rule within certain parameters of endorsed consent.”
“Yes sir,” Napoleon simply acquiesced.
At present he wasn’t up to providing more verbal feedback. The confusion engendered by the disquieting yearning his latest encounter with Abriana had roused in him was indeed playing and replaying unsettlingly within his mind. Was he being patently disloyal to Clara? Or just deliberately loyal to U.N.C.L.E.? Was his rational awareness of the mission discreetly leading the natural reactions of his body and even of his heart? Or was he physically and emotionally letting some unrealistic fairytale casually overtake his hold on surer reason?
The official invitation for a stay at the palace had arrived not even twenty-four hours after he and Abriana had connected in that first kiss. Delivered by liveried messenger, the authorized request bore not only the Grand Princess’ formal seal but a personal entreaty penned in her own hand beneath the sanctioned signature:
And for the present Napoleon Solo would oblige because U.N.C.L.E. commanded he do so. But what in the end would be the personal consequences of that action, what inside him would change forever because of that steadfast adherence to duty, he knew not and preferred not to dwell upon. Things were what they were and he would just have to deal with them as best he could within the boundaries of any given moment.
“I am Beppe, Mr. Solo,” the man addressed him in but lightly-accented English. “I will be attending to your personal grooming and secretarial needs during your stay in Castello di Marmo Scuro.”
The valet provided him by the Chamberlain of the Royal Household reminded Napoleon quite strongly of the cameriere personale who had served him when he was a boy back in his grandfather’s ambassadorial household in Rome. An older version of course, as this man was at a guess about forty, but nonetheless with the same sense of propriety-fostered reserved decorum. Thankfully though this” gentleman’s gentleman” did not address him in the third person as his long-ago manservant Giacobbe had.
“I can see you are a man of impeccable taste,” Beppe now candidly complimented Solo on his urbane stylishness, something evident even in the long-sleeved white polo, stone-colored chinos and dark gray leather loafers in which Napoleon was currently quite casually outfitted. “Therefore will it, I’m sure, be a pleasure to serve you.”
“I aim to please,” thought Napoleon to himself in amusement. “If you bear in mind that I will expect to be granted total privacy when I expressly ask for it, I imagine we shall get on quite well, Beppe.”
“Be assured I am not here to spy upon you in any fashion, Mr. Solo,” the valet cleared the air straightaway. “Such covert shenanigans are not in my character, which is likely why Her Gracious Highness chose me for this particular duty. She has informed her ministers outright that you are here at her express request and that they are to honor without suspicion or hesitance her purposeful trust in making such a personal appeal to you.”
Napoleon blinked in astonishment. “Very magnanimous of her to be sure.”
“Our sovereign is indeed a very magnanimous lady,” Beppe agreed, “and, if I may be so bold as to make mention, seems to have developed a gentle affection for you.”
“As have I for her,” Napoleon noted without so much as a single iota of dishonesty, as an undeniable affection for the Grand Princess of Nascoste had in fact been growing steadily in him during the sparse few weeks of their acquaintance.
“A fine thing in my opinion,” Beppe ventured with all the respectful audacity of a long-time domestic who feels a certain possessive protectiveness toward his employers. “Her Gracious Highness remains too much alone. Youth should be a time for camaraderie and laughter.”
“Yet I imagine such difficult to attain for one in such a lofty position.”
“Just so, Mr. Solo,” Beppe conceded. “But now you are here and all is as it should be.”
“I thank you sincerely for the vote of confidence, Beppe.”
“Do nothing to make me regret that support, Mr. Solo,” cautioned the valet in all seriousness. “Her Gracious Highness deserves all the best life can bring her: be that in experiences or companionship.”
Napoleon felt a pang of conscience with regard to what he knew he must do. In light of that, could he really give Abriana even the smallest piece of the best of himself?
“You set the bar high, Beppe,” he remarked a bit anxiously.
“It all things, Mr. Solo, it is paramount to aim high. Yes, perhaps it presents the possibility for bigger failure, but also for larger success. So in the end the risk is worth the taking, isn’t it?”
Yes: Napoleon decided after but a mere few seconds of contemplation on this score. Aiming to be but middling in anything was a coward’s way. And he wasn’t a coward. So he would seek the utmost goals with every ounce of vim and vigor in himself. For U.N.C.L.E.’s needs, for his own satisfaction of mind, and for Abriana’s at least temporary content.
“Damn right, Beppe,” he voiced firmly. “Risk can provide its own reward.”
Beppe nodded briskly before turning the conversation onto more immediate matters. “You are to luncheon in a few hours with Her Gracious Highness: the Grand Princess Abriana, Her Highness: the Princess Adjuvant Donjeta, the Grand Princess’ Minister of Internal Affairs: Tomas Grecco, and Her Highness’ Accesso all'Orecchio: Zamir Continetti.”
“Access to the Ear?” Napoleon translated the odd title of Continetti, pretending ignorance of the nuances of Nascosten governmental structure. His current goal was to get Beppe talking a bit about Continetti. Domestics, he recognized quite well, were often privy to much internal household tittle-tattle.
“A traditional position, Mr. Solo, in the entourage of any Prince or Princess Adjuvant,” explained Beppe. “Such a councilor is the time-honored liaison for the Adjuvant to gain the attention of the reigning sovereign. Though, in the case of Signore Continetti, that title perhaps more describes his particular situation with Her Highness, the Princess Donjeta. She is very reliant upon his counsel.”
“And the other man mentioned? The Minister of Internal Affairs?”
“Signore Grecco,” Beppe readily provided the name. “He is the first advisor to the Grand Princess herself and a noble man in every respect. His influence over Her Gracious Highness does not extend to the same length as does that of Signore Continetti over the Princess Adjuvant, however. The Grand Princess Abriana will take her first minister’s opinion under advisement when making any decision, but at the end of the day her decisions are her own.”
“Like those of her father before her,” noted Solo.
“The monarchy of Nascoste is one with few limits, Mr. Solo, most of those existing only through the courtesy of the monarchs themselves. Yet in all honesty I have to say there have been but few truly selfish and tyrannical rulers in the history of Nascoste.”
“A fortunate fall of the dice,” Napoleon warned sagely.
“Or perhaps it is that the rulers of Nascoste teach their children well,” countered Beppe with a teasing smile.
Napoleon smiled in return. “The conformist results of predictable parenting?”
“Indeed,” finalized the manservant with a small wink, something totally unexpected given the restrained nature of his overall demeanor.
Napoleon laughed lightly, liking this tiny bit of surprising “cheek” in the valet that surely the Giacobbe of his childhood had never displayed to him. Yes, he really would get on with this somewhat unconventional gentleman’s gentleman. Abriana had matched them well, with a keen understanding of the personalities of both men.
“All right then, back to business, Beppe,” Solo returned to the pressing requirements of proper attire for the upcoming luncheon. “This to-do is more informal than formal, I take it?”
Beppe nodded. “A rather intimate gathering. Suit-and-tie of course, but nothing more elaborate.”
With that Beppe opened the wardrobe where Napoleon’s rather impressive travel stock of clothing (unquestionably a necessity for this mission) had already been properly hung on satin-padded hangers or folded and stored in cedar-lined drawers as prescribed by the form of each garment. Surveying the contents within by both sight and touch, the valet ultimately suggested in a manner that was more than a suggestion, “The mocha Italian wool-and-silk suit I think: the perfect means to highlight your natural coloring. With it: a cream-colored cotton-and-silk blend poplin shirt with a Windsor-spread collar and link-cuffed sleeves. No need for full French cuffs on this occasion. As to the tie: gold silk, but not too bright in hue nor overly glossy in texture, and perhaps decorated with a discreet pattern.”
“Perhaps the tawny gold one with the pale blue swirling pattern?” suggested Napoleon in turn with a smirk of amusement. He’d been dressing himself rather successfully for a goodly number of years now, after all.
“Yes, an excellent choice,” decided Beppe as he removed the tie in question from the wardrobe’s tie rack and laid it over one of the dowels on the dressing room valet stand. “Balmorals in a medium brown leather and dark brown socks of course,” finalized the gentleman’s gentleman as he further rummaged inside the wardrobe and removed the essential items, placing them appropriately on the footrest of the stand. “I will take the suit and the shirt downstairs to be pressed after drawing your bath.”
With that the experienced manservant moved off into the bathroom, leaving Solo still smirking as he undressed. Depositing his discarded clothes in a readily accessible hamper, Solo donned a thick terry robe as he anticipated a luxurious soak in the deep claw-foot tub he espied through the open doorway of the bath.
“Rank – or even a certain nearness to rank – doth have its privileges,” he remarked with a relaxed chuckle as he prepared to thoroughly relish the pampering.
As Napoleon was led by one of the household servants into the small (in relative palace terms) private dining room used for family meals and other informal gatherings by the royals, the Grand Princess rose unexpectedly from her chair and walked over to personally greet him.
“How very handsome you do look, Napoleon!” Abriana complimented him as she pushed herself up on tiptoe to deposit an affectionate kiss on his cheek, aided by Solo bending a bit to her level when he realized her intent.
“Beppe is a man of extraordinary sartorial genius, Gracious Highness,” Napoleon asserted with a sly wink at the Grand Princess that set her broadly grinning.
The two councilors, who had risen from their own seats upon the standing of their sovereign, observed the personal ease between the young couple with differing emotions. In Grecco it raised a certain degree of circumspection, while in Continetti it engendered a definite measure of smugness.
“I told you, my dear, he was quite fit for public scrutiny,” commented Donjeta with a ready smile as she followed her sister’s lead, walking up to Napoleon and planting a friendly kiss on his opposite cheek.
“Come and sit,” inveigled Abriana as she slipped an arm into Solo’s and guided him toward the table. “As this is your first day as a guest within the Castello di Marmo Scuro, I have arranged for us to dine on a fine tagliata di manzo this luncheon. I know it is one of your favorites.”
Napoleon turned a startled gaze to her. “How did you come to know that, Gracious Highness? I’m sure I never mentioned it to you.”
Abriana’s pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she replied, “A Grand Princess does have her confidential sources.”
Napoleon chuckled. “And what other tidbits of information have you collected about me, spia più principesca?” he subsequently asked with an answering mischievous sparkle in his own hazel brown eyes.
{Translation: most princessly spy
“Never enough to suit my boundless curiosity,” came Abriana’s partly teasing and partly serious retort. “I would know everything about you, Napoleon,” she then admitted with perhaps a touch of shy innuendo in the revelation.
That admission on her part once again sent a pang of emotion most assuredly bordering on guilt running through the mind and heart of Napoleon Solo. She was psychologically opening herself up to him, without any of the hesitation vital to providing a fallback position of safe regal diffidence. While he had to keep himself in the main closed off from her.
Napoleon corralled his wayward conscience into submission by focusing his gaze momentarily upon one of the cufflinks he wore. It was an umbrella disk of Florentine-finished gold centered with a small blue star-sapphire. He had purchased the set that past December in Anegada just after graduating from U.N.C.L.E. Survival School top of his class. Now looking at one of the pair served to remind him that this mission delegated by the Command had a benign purpose, that he wasn’t taking part in this uncompromising charade of “hearts and flowers” for selfish or malicious reasons.
The awkwardness of Napoleon’s situation at that moment was blessedly relieved by Grecco’s verbal prompt of “Your Gracious Highness, we keep the servers most discourteously at heel.”
With a quick glance around the room where several servants stood patiently at the ready to perform their assigned tasks, Abriana acknowledged, albeit a bit reluctantly, “Yes, yes of course.” And with that she left Napoleon standing behind his own chair as she went once more to the head of the table and regained her seat, the others seating themselves immediately afterwards.
As principal guest, Solo was seated to the right of the Grand Princess, with the Princess Adjuvant seated to his right. The Minister of Internal Affairs was seated to the left of the Grand Princess and thus across from Napoleon. While the Accesso all'Orecchio was seated to Grecco’s left and therefore across from the Princess Adjuvant. The Grand Princess informally made the necessary introductions between Napoleon and the two cabinet ministers as the first course of cucumber consommé was set before them all.
In his late-fifties, Tomas Grecco was a smallish man with a non-audacious though well-tailored manner of dress. His sandy hair was peppered with a plentitude of gray, both on his head and in the short, neatly-trimmed beard he sported. He was softly but very precisely spoken, reminiscent of someone who was part of the intelligentsia of academia. From the dossiers he had perused before the mission, Solo knew Grecco came from noble Nascosten bloodlines, was considered possessed of an astute political mind, and that the councilor’s dedication to his nation was openly declared as unparalleled. As well the Minister of Internal Affairs had a calming way about him that made one immediately comfortable in his company.
In contrast Zamir Continetti was a giant of man, at least six-and-half feet in height and very likely more. The minister’s custom-made clothes did little to disguise the underlying heavily muscled frame that bespoke of the sturdy Albanian peasant stock of his birth heritage. Clean-shaven, his countenance nonetheless at this midday hour already showed the beginnings of a noticeable five-o’clock shadow. He definitely displayed a penchant for flashy jewelry, attested to by the numerous gem-encrusted rings he wore on his fingers, as well as the glitteringly diamond-accented bar that held in place his tie and an equally glittering multi-stone stickpin of the Nascosten royal coat-of-arms that decorated his lapel. From the U.N.C.L.E. intelligence files, Solo was familiar with the fact that Continetti was some sixty years old. Yet he appeared nowhere near that age. This impression was only enhanced by the man’s midnight black hair that displayed not a single strand of gray, though of course he likely made necessary use of a dye bottle to achieve that particular wonder. Still, there was no denying the Accesso all'Orecchio was indeed an impressive physical presence.
The luncheon moved along pleasantly enough, with the food deliciously satisfying and the dialogue agreeably relaxed. Napoleon allowed his recollections of smaller official dinner parties within the various embassies in which his grandfather had resided as top representative of the U.S. government to guide his words as well as his actions. He was no stranger to diplomacy, whether in a social or political setting.
“So this worldwide charitable organization by which you are employed,” Tomas Grecco continued the chitchat that had settled, not exactly to Solo’s peace of mind though he betrayed nothing, upon Napoleon’s current career, “provides compassionate relief to put-upon peoples?”
“Various forms of humanitarian aid, yes,” Napoleon smoothly let this public description of U.N.C.L.E. stand. After all, it wasn’t an outright lie. Of course none of those at the table knew him as an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. with which all of them had in truth at least a vague familiarity. The organization that employed him was known to them by another name entirely, that of one of the Command’s submersive public entities.
“No direct monetary support?” questioned Donjeta pointedly.
“No, not as a rule.”
“Nor military assistance in the way of weaponry or equipment?” further prompted the Princess Adjuvant.
“Never. The intent is to better the state of the world as a whole, not worsen it.”
“Yet aren’t there situations where providing such things could indeed improve the global condition?” Donjeta pressed.
“Begging your pardon for the bluntness of my query, but improve for whom, Highness?” Napoleon inquired straight-to-the-fore. “Warfare of any kind seldom benefits the populace of the nations involved.”
“You are an American, Napoleon,” Donjeta went for her own point with equal bluntness. “You fought for your country in Korea. Surely you understand that certain threats – Communism in that case and many others at the present time – to continuing civilized well-being are worth using any means to contain?”
“Donjeta,” warned the Grand Princess sharply, “you know how I dislike political talk at private table.”
“I’ll answer the question, Gracious Highness,” Napoleon disallowed Abriana’s intervention in his behalf. “Highness,” he then directed his response to Donjeta as his eyes unwaveringly met hers, “what I learned in Korea is that political ideologies have little to do with humanitarian goals. One man’s ambrosia of spirit is another man’s poison of heart. Therefore in the end you just cannot mix universal ethics with dogmatic xenophobia. Attempting to do so becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom for the salvation of mankind as a whole.”
Donjeta was silent for a few moments after Napoleon’s declaration, her manner seeming a bit put-out. Abriana, however, appeared discreetly pleased, as indeed did Tomas Grecco. Zamir Continetti remained completely noncommittal in expression. “More precautious than the garden-variety Thrush power-monger, it would seem,” Napoleon summed up the man mentally.
It was Donjeta, more than likely wordlessly prompted by Continetti, who finally broke the somewhat gauche stillness by stating plainly, “You are a man of strong opinions, Napoleon.”
“I apologize if I have given any offense, Highness.”
“No offense, merely food for thought,” Donjeta verbally dismissed the momentary unease at table.
“Most generous, Highness,” Napoleon acknowledged with a slight bow of his head in the direction of the Princess Adjuvant.
After that somewhat thorny topic, conversation returned to more neutral subjects. Yet did Napoleon take particular note of the subsequent covertly exchanged glances between the Princess Adjuvant and her Accesso all'Orecchio.
“He will be utterly useless to us in persuading Abriana to see the moral rightness of our viewpoint,” Princess Adjuvant Donjeta complained bitterly to her Accesso all’Orecchio once within the privacy of Continetti’s palace office.
“He is become, like many young men once they experience the trials of war, an optimistic idealist. I have seen this many times. In the end such lofty ideas cannot persist,” Zamir calmly placated the inexperienced royal under his experienced wing.
“I do not believe him a coward, Zamir,” stated Donjeta certainly.
“I do not account him in the least a coward, Highness,” Continetti extrapolated his own position. “I believe Mr. Napoleon Solo would fight to the death for what he envisions as right. It is just that his vision of right is perhaps too universally abstract to account for worldly practicalities. In my life have I come in contact with many such men.”
And it was perhaps this explanatory reflection by Continetti that raised the first flag of suspicion, though in the moment he did not note that flag going up inside his own head.
“What we need from Mr. Solo is simply for him to make Abriana his wife,” Zamir forwarded those ‘worldly practicalities’ in this particular venture. “As Crown Princess, you would be able to do much more in working toward our goal in Albania than is possible with your current status, Highness.”
“True,” agreed Donjeta. “And Abriana does love Napoleon. She has herself confided that to me. So we would be doing much good and little harm by promoting a union between the pair.”
“Thus we simply let nature take its course. With Mr. Solo staying here in the palace, he and the Grand Princess will be put much more in each other’s direct path and therefore will more often seek out each other’s personal company. Such is always the way of things with romantic attraction between young people.”
“I do myself like Napoleon, Zamir,” admitted Donjeta. “I would have no qualms with having him as a brother-in-law.”
Zamir chuckled amusedly. “So everything works in our favor.”
“Meaning God does Himself approve of our plan.”
Continetti made no comment to that assertion. Whether God approved or not, Thrush most certainly would, and that for him was the crux of the matter.
Because much of her time was occupied with matters of state and details regarding the ceremony of her upcoming coronation, Abriana procured for Napoleon’s especial use a French-make catamaran. The Grand Princess did not want Solo becoming bored in the generally restrictive atmosphere of the palace. Thus did she aim to keep him in good spirits by providing him a means to indulge in his favorite pastime. Sailing the small but yare craft over the blue waters of the Adriatic she surmised could all but guarantee this. And the personal enjoyment of his nautical hobby within the supplied boat also offered him a measure of privacy not possible in the Castello di Marmo Scuro with its bustling domestic and governmental staff.
Accordingly the days quickly fell into a pattern where Solo and the Grand Princess went out on an approximately hour-long riding jaunt shortly after breakfast; then Abriana attended to the business of running her nation before the two lunched together most often. After lunch Abriana would return to her royal tasks while Napoleon set out alone on the catamaran for several hours. They would meet again for dinner, which was sometimes an informal event but just as often a formal affair with Solo serving as Her Gracious Highness’ official escort. If any hours remained before needing to retire for the night, the pair would sit together in one of the private parlors of the palace. Sometimes they played chess; sometimes they played cards; sometimes they watched a bit of a televised newscast; sometimes they listened to music; yet most often they simply talked.
Abriana found these exchanges between them, which ran the gambit from extremely lighthearted to seriously weighty topics, completely addictive. She absolutely adored talking with Napoleon. He was intelligent and witty; he cared deeply about the circumstances of the world and its peoples; he could charm and cajole, but he could just as easily engage and excite. He had a wicked earth-bound sense of humor that teased and tantalized without ever breaking the boundaries of mental comfort, and an uncanny spirit-bound ability that soothed or sympathized always within the parameters most suited to the emotional climate. Every single one of these precious moments between the two of them propelled the Grand Princess deeper and deeper into the throes of genuine love.
As to the physical side of the equation, Abriana longed to be one with the man. She wanted his arms around her, his lips fastened on hers, their bodies joined in coital passion. She was fascinated by the deceptive strength she sensed in all of his physical being whenever they managed a discreet moment to eagerly embrace or clandestinely cuddle. The classically chiseled cut of his profile often left her rapt in something embarrassingly akin to idol worship. The mischief and compassion that could so easily alternate within the hazel-brown depths of his eyes made her actually shiver with pleasure. And his hair, dark as deepest night and soft as smoothest velvet, created an endless desire in her, one she could but rarely permit herself, to touch and stroke and pet.
So winter glided smoothly into spring, and to Abriana the promise inherent in the new season had never seemed more inspiring.
Napoleon made practical use of the solitude granted him during his outings on the catamaran to keep in contact by communicator with U.N.C.L.E. As Solo was a private American citizen, who was merely a current guest of the Nascosten royal family, there was no prerequisite for bodyguards of any kind. And the boat could only accommodate two people in any case. Napoleon was permitted to wear his own holstered semiautomatic, since his sharpshooting skills had been verified, and that was as much security as was considered needful under the circumstances. This suited Solo’s own needs perfectly as he could, without any threat of being eavesdropped or spied upon, update the status of his assignment while afloat on the open sea.
More often than not, Mr. Waverly made himself available for these reports. The mission was such a delicate one that the Continental Chief preferred to hear of Solo’s progress directly from the source rather than through organizationally abridged rundowns.
“I’m not sure what to make of Donjeta’s attitude regarding what she terms as all people’s essential right of self-decision with regard to political systems,” Napoleon this day summarized for Waverly’s benefit. “It’s an idea I agree with in essence, but she seems to think it, therefore, the world’s obligation to afford people seen as somehow lacking in this right any and all means to attain such.”
“Any and all means? Including the clandestine furnishing of arms and monetary funding?” queried Waverly pointedly.
Since the incident at his first informal luncheon in Castello di Marmo Scuro, Solo had been making it a priority to engage the Princess Adjuvant in casual conversation whenever possible. The nature of what she had particularly asked him on that initial occasion had raised nagging questions in his mind, questions he recognized it was part of his mission to answer.
“Yes sir,” he therefore replied with absolute certainty. “She seems to have no concept of the possible price in human terms of such free-for-all methods. And there is just… Hard to explain, sir, but hers seems a worldview based more on personal aspirations than purely ideological ones.”
“Her father, in his youth, was involved in the Albanian Revolt of 1910,” Mr. Waverly supplied vital information. “That was the beginning of that country’s break from Ottoman rule.”
“When he was sixteen,” Napoleon recalled from the dossiers he had studied before beginning his assignment, “and much against his own father’s wishes.”
“Yes, he snuck into Albania by small boat and was, for a time, considered drowned at sea. He was discovered in the group of insurgents at the Kačanik Pass blocking the railway to Skopje, and taken prisoner by the Ottoman government. It took quite a feat of international diplomacy on the part of his father, the then Grand Prince of Nascoste, to get him returned to his native country.”
“I understand that, during his time with the insurgents, he met the Albanian woman who would later become his second wife,” Napoleon remarked.
“The Grand Consort Ljena,” Waverly readily furnished the name.
“Stepmother to Abriana and Donjeta,” added Solo speculatively.
“Yes, but there were never any issues in that regard,” the chief countered the course of his agent’s speculations. “His daughters were both quite young, just five and three I believe, at the time Grand Prince Adalfieri wed Ljena. They didn’t remember their mother, the Grand Princess Trillare, who had died in childbirth when Donjeta was born. No friction thus existed in the royal family when Ljena became part of it. She was undoubtedly fond of both girls and they were apparently equally fond of her.”
“Abriana has mentioned her in passing, and always with affection,” Napoleon conceded. “Ljena died some half-dozen years ago; that right?”
“Correct, Mr. Solo. Her passing was deeply mourned not only by her husband and stepdaughters, but by the people of Nascoste as a whole. She had quite endeared herself to the national populace over the decade of her marriage.”
“She was related to Ismail Qemali, wasn’t she?” Solo made reference to Albania’s nationalist hero and that country’s first Prime Minister during its brief era of independence.
“Distantly. A cousin of some sort. She was born into a wealthy Muslim family, but converted to Roman Catholicism sometime after the 1910 revolt. Supposedly she said years later the reason she did so had less to do with religious convictions than with political ones. According to her own blunt declarations in this regard, she wanted to detach herself completely from anything that could be related to the Ottoman rule in Albania.”
“Ah. Perhaps then she instilled the personal approach toward political convictions into her younger stepdaughter?”
“A reasonable assumption, Mr. Solo, but it does little to get us the answers we need. To wit: why is Thrush so interested in the Nascosten royal family, and for what purpose are they seeking to utilize any possible ties to that family?
“Continetti is cunning to a fault,” complained Napoleon unhappily. “Whatever dealings he has with Thrush, he is keeping close to the vest. I haven’t come across any real hint as to what might be brewing on that backburner.”
All Solo’s attempts at covert skullduggery in laying possible verbal traps for the Accesso all’Orecchio to catch him perhaps in an unguarded word had been hopelessly unsuccessful. As well Solo hadn’t yet discovered any way to directly spy or eavesdrop upon Continetti during his conferences with the Princess Adjuvant. Entrance to the man’s office was tightly restricted, and Napoleon had to retain an outward show of nonchalance and disinterest in the governmental workings of Nascoste.
Solo sighed in frustration. “This is a puzzle with just too many pieces still missing.”
“And you will only get at those pieces through closer connection with the Nascosten royal family, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly advised with undisguised adamancy. “I understand from outside sources that the Grand Princess has been showing a marked affection for you even in public,” he further took up this tack in the discussion.
Napoleon swallowed hard in an attempt to clear an uncomfortable lump in his throat. “She seems partial to my company, yes sir, but we are seldom alone. Thus conjuring up a situation sufficiently intimate to arouse in her an irresistible impulse toward marriage is proving a bit difficult. I am making slow-but-steady progress in that direction though.”
“Not good enough, Mr. Solo,” judged the Continental Chief doggedly. “Goddamn man, get the thing done! I’ve certainly overheard tales enough of your romantic prowess from the female members of this organization to suspect this is not an overwhelming challenge for you.”
Shocked by Waverly’s bold assertion, it was all Napoleon could do to respond with a restrained, “Yes sir.”
“We understand each other then, young man. Time is a commodity that cannot be reclaimed. Therefore, get on posthaste with claiming the Nascosten Grand Princess as your bride. That will at the very least account for one less niggling item over which I need lose sleep. There are surely enough of those in my head as it is, what with all the ongoing negotiations with the Soviet government regarding obtaining an agent for training within the Command enforcement ranks.”
“Relations a bit constrained, I take it?” Like most of those in Section II, Solo was intently interested in what would happen if and when a Russian operative was added into their midst. Thus, perhaps his question was ill-advised, but it was surely understandable under the circumstances.
“Mr. Solo, you need only concern yourself with ‘unconstraining’ relations with the Grand Princess of Nascoste,” the Number 1 in Section I pronounced testily. “Waverly out.”
“Those negotiations with the Soviets must be playing out quite badly,” spontaneously thought Napoleon as he detached the cord from the wireless radio connection and disassembled the communicator, turning it once more into a cigarette case before unsuspecting eyes.
...continued in Act III...
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