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section7mfuAnd that's all she wrote!
Act IV: Ever After
Sunlight sneaking in bright ribbons through the curtains of the bedchamber window gently awakened Abriana. She languidly stretched her naked body within the comfy nest of bedclothes and then turned with a radiant smile to gaze upon the slumbering visage of her new husband. Curling onto her side to snuggle closer to his warm and equally naked body, she positioned her head upon his chest to listen to his sleep-slowed yet satisfyingly rhythmic heartbeat. She had never before in her life been this completely content.
With a happy sigh, she burrowed even closer, the soft sound and soothing movement finally rousing Napoleon from the land of dreams. He focused his sleep-glazed eyes upon the woman lying with her head on his chest. Expecting in his mind’s eye to see Clara there, he was for an instant totally disoriented by the vision of someone other than she cuddling close in a shared bed. He quickly quelled that flash of internal confusion, however, as recognition of his current situation and of his new wife returned in full measure.
“Sleep well, my darling?” The totally relaxed and eminently blissful Abriana all but purred out the question.
“How could I help but do so?” Napoleon quipped with a roguish smirk. “After so much enthusiastic exercise on the night before?”
Abriana’s response was a blush accompanied by an impish smirk of her own and accented by a light punch to his upper arm. “Have you no sense of decorum, August Sir?”
“Not in bed,” forwarded Napoleon candidly.
“So I noticed last night,” Abriana assured him just as candidly.
And then the both of them broke into a bout of quiet laughter.
Beneath the cover of that easy laughter though, Napoleon’s private emotions were churning round and round. Clara: would she understand? Clara: could he even expect her to understand? Clara: had he forfeited her love forever?
“Napoleon?” Abriana called his attention fully back to present realities with a seriously-toned address.
“Hmmm?” he gave a barely verbal reply as the current woman in his bed took to enticingly rubbing a hand back-and-forth across his bare chest.
“I know this will likely sound silly, but… Have you ever… well… felt as if you just couldn’t get physically close enough to someone? As if what you wanted more than anything was somehow to get right inside the other person’s skin?”
Napoleon wasn’t certain how to answer that particular query. Had he ever felt that way? Yes… with Clara.
“I think your memory is a bit off with regard to just who has the ability to get inside whose skin,” he therefore avoided the dilemma with teasing innuendo.
What that garnered him was another light punch to the upper arm from Abriana, along with another round of quiet laughter on her part. Raising her head up off his chest and looking straight into his eyes, she subsequently inveigled with a mischievous grin, “Remind me.”
And that Napoleon did. Because he was an U.N.C.L.E. agent with a mission to complete. But more because her naïve sweetness tempted him with temporary forgetfulness of the hurt he was inflicting upon the heart of his Clara.
The duo honeymooned on the Amalfi Coast. After arriving by private plane in Naples, they booked a hydrofoil to Sorrento. From there they took off on the famously winding roads in a fire-engine red Alfa Romeo Barchetta convertible that Napoleon absolutely adored. Their bodyguards kept a discreet distance in a separate (and less eye-catching car) as the royal couple traveled to Positano, to Furore, to Ravello, to Amalfi, to Praiano, and then back to Positano.
Enjoying themselves like tourists, the pair reveled in the seaside and mountain views, the quaint towns and landmark churches, and stayed overnight with carefree ease in one preapproved venue or another as the mood struck them. Finally they embarked on a chartered ferry to return from Positano to Sorrento, and then on a private vessel to voyage from Sorrento to Capri, where they lazed in the sun for the remaining few days of their post-wedding jaunt. On the morning of the twelfth day after their marriage, a final boat ride brought the Grand Princess Abriana and her Grand Consort Napoleon Solo back to Naples. A private plane was waiting at the Capodichino Airport to return them to Diamant-Grezzo and the full responsibilities of their relative positions in Nascoste.
In many ways the honeymoon trip had been an indulgent luxury, what with the close proximity to the date of Abriana’s formal coronation. Yet was it a luxury Abriana had been unwilling to forego. So now, just three-and-half weeks before that all-important scheduled ceremony, the regal couple returned to a furor of activity in Castello di Marmo Scuro. While Abriana went immediately into meetings with her Minister of Internal Affairs, Solo went sailing on the catamaran.
Grecco was not pleased when Napoleon noted to Abriana his plans for the afternoon. The time had come for decisions on what part the new Grand Consort would play in Nascosten governmental affairs. Tomas urgently wanted to get Napoleon’s own feedback on this. But Napoleon insisted on the boating excursion, saying it would likely be the last time he could manage such until after the coronation. Abriana had agreed, stating to Tomas there were matters that initially needed to be discussed between herself and the minister prior to Solo’s input being sought. Reluctantly, Grecco acquiesced to the wishes of his sovereign.
Napoleon’s expressed desire for an outing on the catamaran had nothing to do with wanting to postpone more weighty concerns. He needed to contact U.N.C.L.E. rather urgently as he hadn’t been able to do so at all during the honeymoon. He hadn’t even taken his communicator across the sea with him to Italy, knowing there would be no opportunity to make clandestine use of it. Thus, before making his way to the private royal dock, he took a few minutes to retrieve the communications instrument from its hiding place in his former chambers. Upon finding the supposed cigarette case exactly where he had left it, he breathed a sigh of silent relief that no overzealous maid had uncovered it during the final cleaning of those rooms and the move of his possessions into his new private suite adjoining that of Abriana.
As Grand Consort, Solo was now required to have a bodyguard near-at-hand during his sails. Thankfully the man assigned to him only shadowed in a motorized daysailer rather than insisting upon being actually onboard the same craft as the August Sir. Napoleon had to play a bit of hide-and-seek to insure his use of the communicator was veiled from ready view of the bodyguard. This he accomplished by interposing the wind-filled canvas of his own vessel between himself and the man’s sightline. He was a spy after all.
“Open Channel D. Solo to New York.”
“Back from your honeymoon, I take it, Mr. Solo?” Mr. Waverly’s voice responded with more swiftness than Napoleon had expected.
“Yes sir. Has Section III or Section IV been able to garner any intelligence about the possible Albanian stepbrother?”
“That is proving a difficult matter, Mr. Solo. Whatever secrets are being hidden, they are buried uncommonly deep. But we did manage to come up with a possible match with regard to an Albanian revolutionary who is currently very much in the negative sights of the Soviets. One Mergim Hajdari.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard the name before.”
“You likely wouldn’t have, Mr. Solo. In revolutionary circles he goes by the pseudonym Një nga Hijet.”
{Translation: One of the Shadows}
“Now that name is somewhat familiar.”
“Indeed. A zealot in the truest sense of the word who obsessively seeks Albanian political self-determination. More than one Soviet warrant has been issued for his arrest and detention, but he is a slippery one with apparently much support throughout the local citizenry.”
“I imagine the Soviet government is truly less than fond of him then.”
“That’s putting it mildly, Mr. Solo. In fact, whenever I attempted to get any real information about the man from my own Russian sources, they so much as told me to keep out of Soviet national business.”
Napoleon was shocked. Waverly was well regarded by the international political elite and thus could almost without fail get inside data by pulling a few personal strings. That such apparently hadn’t worked in this particular case spoke volumes about the level of threat the Soviets considered this Një nga Hijet to be.
“Do we know anything about his familial background?” Solo further queried.
“Next to nothing. He was brought up by adoptive parents, both now deceased. If they had any clue regarding the specifics of his birth, they took it to their graves.”
“Could he possibly be an illegitimate son of the late Nascosten Grand Prince Adalfieri?” Solo suggested to his superior.
“Not likely, Mr. Solo. Hajdari is approximately thirty years of age. Thus his birthdate is around 1925. Grand Prince Adalfieri, who had gained the throne of Nascoste just the year before, was rather occupied at that point with some unexpected serious financial problems in his principality. Thus he traveled outside his island realm not at all that year or the previous or the next.”
“Well, still a possibility. Yet you’re of course right, sir; it’s not likely. What about Continetti?”
“Ah, there we have a more likely possibility. Continetti, as a teenager, was part of the insurgent forces during the 1910 revolt in Albania. Thus was how he first came in contact with then Crown Prince Adalfieri. He’s an Albanian by birth, but traveled to Nascoste around 1913 or so at the invitation of the Crown Prince to take up a post within the young heir's household. It seems Prince Adalfieri considered Continetti, who was just a year younger than himself, as much a friend as a political associate. In 1925 Continetti returned to his native country to champion the new Albanian Republic. But when the republic failed, he made Nascoste his permanent home, becoming a naturalized citizen. He’s held various positions in the Nascosten government since that time.”
“And Continetti has an extremely huge influence on Princess Adjuvant Donjeta. But the stepbrother reference is still a bit ambiguous in that scenario.”
“Missing pieces to the puzzle: agreed, Mr. Solo. Have you made any inquiries of your wife in this regard?”
Napoleon foolishly felt his face flush crimson. “I… uh… well… no.”
“For pity’s sake, why ever not, young man?” demanded a rather irritated Waverly.
“You yourself said I had to be circumspect about possibly unjustly accusing Donjeta of any wrongdoing, sir.” Napoleon fell back on the initial instructions he had been given regarding his mission.
“Of course, but the Grand Princess is now your wife! Thus you have a right to be made privy to any possible skeletons in the family closet!”
Thinking of one particular skeleton in his own family closet, Napoleon couldn’t help but comment, “Speaking about rights in such instances can often be a self-tripping exercise, sir.”
For a long moment the line went quiet, causing Solo to wonder if maybe the connection had gone dead. But then came again the voice of the Continental Chief, sounding a bit apologetic in Napoleon’s ears. Though Solo was willing to concede he was conceivably imagining something in his superior’s vocal tone that just wasn’t there.
“Do as you think best, Mr. Solo. But we do need to gather up all the necessary pieces of this puzzle as quickly as possible.”
“Understood, sir. Solo, out.”
“As you have a background in coordinating charitable endeavors, Napoleon,” Abriana extrapolated to her husband, “you are perfect for this task.”
“So this aid organization your family controls,” Napoleon sought clarification, “is international in scope?”
Abriana nodded. “We have global humanitarian goals similar to those of the concern you worked for.”
“I doubt that,” Napoleon couldn’t resist a mental caveat, though of course he said nothing outright.
“You’ll have to co-manage this with Donjeta of course. As Princess Adjuvant, her position automatically puts her in the lead of anything meant for the societal benefit of the people of Nascoste.”
“I have no issue with such restrictions, Abriana,” Napoleon assured his wife. “Your country, your rules,” he added with a sly wink.
His wife laughed lightly. “Though I will admit I am less than keen on sharing you with Donjeta even in so procedural a manner,” she then remarked with a bit of a crooked grin.
“My possessive little autocrat,” teased Napoleon as he leaned well over the desk in the private study of the Grand Princess, where they currently sat across from one another, to place an affectionate peck on her lips. “So when do I begin this new Grand Consortly duty?”
“As soon as possible. I want the people of this nation to recognize you as a fully functioning part of this monarchy.”
“Don’t want me labeled a slug-a-bed boy-toy, eh?” Napoleon playfully mocked with a raised eyebrow.
Abriana laughed merrily. “I don’t in the least mind toying with you in bed. But, being so much thrust in the public eye, we both need to have more civic-minded occupations as well. Therefore, Grecco will arrange within a few days an initial meeting on this facet of your new position with my sister and her Accesso all’Orecchio. Beppe will subsequently be provided with all the scheduling details for entry in your daily diary.”
“Ah. Then it is assured I will not only be on time to this consultation but extremely well-dressed!” gibed Solo. “Beppe, after all, is a wonder of gentlemanly gentleman proficiency.”
“Well, he does have a wonder of a gentleman to gentleman for,” noted Abriana in return, as she stood to lean over the intervening desk and place a warm kiss of her own on his lips.
Three days later Napoleon was seated in the private study of the Princess Adjuvant going over a list of charities to which the National Nascosten Benevolence had in the recent past or would be in the near future providing donations in one form or another. Medical equipment; various vaccines and pharmaceutical drugs; educational assistance in the form of books and other supplies; clean water facilities, food provisions; warm clothing depots; funding for the repair and upkeep of orphanages, hospitals, schools and old age homes.
“As you can see from that list, Napoleon, my choice of avenues to furnish support is rather eclectic,” commented Donjeta with a ready smile as her brother-in-law continued to peruse the provided documentation.
“Indeed,” Solo agreed. “But I take no issue with that as long as all these distribution channels have been thoroughly vetted.”
“Zamir takes more than admirable care of such details,” noted the Princess with a nod toward her Accesso all’Orecchio.
“Your Highness,” Continetti acknowledged the compliment paid him with a nod of his own.
“I trust your diligence to be more than adequate, Mr. Continetti,” lied Napoleon smoothly. “Still, I hope you will not take offense if I do some checking via my own sources?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Solo. As there is nothing to hide, there is no cause for offense on my part.”
“Cool as a cucumber,” Napoleon mentally assessed the man. “I do see one entry here that gives me pause,” he then verbally stated to Donjeta.
“What entry would that be, Napoleon?”
“This rather substantial monetary outlay to Fëmijët e Engjëjve Orphanage in Shkodër, Albania.”
“A sad case that, Mr. Solo, a very sad case,” put in Continetti with a distressed frown.
“Indeed, Zamir,” chimed in Donjeta. “It’s an orphanage that houses children with life-threatening medical issues who have been abandoned by their families for such reasons. Zamir himself brought its needs to my attention.”
“I was born and raised in Albania as you undoubtedly know, Mr. Solo,” Continetti expounded easily. “Though I have settled most happily here in Diamant-Grezzo, Shkodër is my original hometown. Thus I personally recall the outstanding humanitarian work done by that orphanage. It currently operates under very difficult circumstances, however, as it once had direct ties to the Catholic Church, ties that the Soviet government has more than once suggested have never been fully severed.”
“Difficult circumstances to be sure,” commiserated Napoleon.
“Some months ago I heard through friends in my former country that the orphanage was in desperate need of a half-dozen iron lungs for the treatment of young polio victims. But the Soviet government,” Continetti continued, an identifiable bitterness sneaking into his voice, “would not provide these because of the accused Catholic connection of the institution.”
“So the Benevolence is stepping in to provide the required equipment,” finalized Donjeta.
“Not to sound too critical,” Napoleon forwarded, “but isn’t the sum mentioned in these records rather large to account for the purchase of six iron lungs?”
“Just so,” the Princess Adjuvant conceded, “for you see I decided, upon hearing the tale of the orphanage’s plight, to arrange for a full reequip of its infirmary.”
“And the Soviet government approved this plan?” doubted Solo.
“Not as of yet. But Zamir will, shortly after my sister’s coronation, undertake a diplomatic mission to Moscow to convince the Soviets that allowing this altruistic endeavor would be a publicity boon for them in the eyes of the world at large.”
“I see,” was all Napoleon remarked.
“I hope you will not think ill of me, August Sir,” Continetti pleaded his case with an obsequious smile, “in importuning for this particular instance of humanitarian intervention in my country of origin?”
“Of course not, Mr. Continetti. Such is understandable, as all of us are products of our pasts. And a good cause is still a good cause no matter the reason pursued,” Napoleon allayed the man’s fears.
Though Solo was well aware any such supposed fears on the part of Zamir Continetti were most definitely faked.
“We’ve looked into the Fëmijët e Engjëjve Orphanage in Shkodër as you suggested, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly confirmed less than a week later during a communicator session with his agent. “It’s a hotbed of Albanian insurrectionist activity, often acting as a way-station for the movement of rebel forces.”
“And the Soviets haven’t just shut the place down?” Napoleon questioned in astonishment.
“It seems they may be hoping to use it as a trap to capture the elusive Një nga Hijet. Of course that is only educated surmise on my part, as rather frustratingly none of my sources will speak even in the closest confidence about the place or the man in question.”
“So I must assume the Soviet government considers the whole matter something of an embarrassment?”
“Undoubtedly, Mr. Solo.”
“I’m still having trouble fitting this all together, sir. I mean what good does it do Thrush to champion a rebel fight in Albania with a goal of that country achieving independent self-determination of future government?”
“Mergim Hajdari could be himself Thrush,” postulated the Continental Chief.
“Maybe, but honestly, sir, have you ever known Thrush to purposely put itself in a losing situation? They surely can’t expect a group of rebels, no matter how well armed, to stand up in the long run against the entirety of the Soviet armed forces.”
“That would seem a curiously optimistic expectation, agreed,” Waverly affirmed his operative’s conclusion.
“So why then bother with all this? What’s the end-goal?”
Both men ruminated in silence for a few moments before Waverly finally remarked, “Good heavens, they are playing both sides against the middle. Thrush is arranging the arms deal so they can whisper the details in Russian ears and arrange for Soviet capture of Mergim Hajdari.”
“The same thought occurs to me, sir,“ seconded Napoleon, “with Thrush placing the blame for the arms procurement squarely on the shoulders of the Nascosten royal family.”
“They must have a reason why they believe the Soviets will accept that scenario without issue.”
“It has to be the stepbrother angle, sir,” prompted Napoleon. “Mergim Hajdari has to have some familial connection with the Nascosten royal family.”
“Our research dead-ended there, Mr. Solo.”
“I believe our research might have taken the wrong approach there, Mr. Waverly.
“Explain.”
“A stepbrother, sir. Not a half-brother,” enumerated Solo pointedly.
“Through the former Grand Consort Ljena,” the Number 1 in Section I finalized the mental computation of facts toward an inevitable conclusion.
“That seems to provide the answer.”
“There have never been any references or even rumors about Ljena having been married previous to her union with the Grand Prince, or to her having any children legitimate or otherwise. Still, it does make perfect sense, Mr. Solo,” Waverly concurred about accepting this speculation without verifiable facts. “Thrush would seem to be seeking in this instance to gain a bit of favorable leverage with the Soviet government.”
“I still don’t know the full extent of Donjeta’s involvement in any of this,” complained Napoleon unhappily.
“Well, find out, Mr. Solo! Before Mr. Continetti makes his planned trip to Moscow at the very latest!”
“Yes sir,” responded Napoleon with snap-to quickness. “Sir?” he then ventured a bit hesitantly.
“Yes, Mr. Solo?”
“Can I ask how negotiations are going with the Soviets with regard to their providing a candidate to serve as a Section II enforcement agent in the Command?”
Waverly didn’t need to be hit over the head. He knew at what this inquiry was meant to hint. Thrush wanted to use whatever favorable leverage they might gain with the Soviets, by instigating the circumstances of the ultimate capture of Mergim Hajdari, as a power-play against U.N.C.L.E. If they had their way, U.N.C.L.E. might as a result lose any tangible influence within the entire Communist Bloc.
“Get me the evidence, man! This scheme cannot be allowed to succeed! Not only for the sake of the Nascosten royal family, but for the sake of the world at large. Waverly, out.”
How one gathered evidence of any variety within a heavily secured palace, and when one was oneself a member of the royal family and thus had to submit to bodyguard protection nearly every day and night, was definitely a quandary. At least his new position provided Solo an excuse to enter the precincts of Donjeta’s private study. He made it a point to arrive early for any meeting there in the hopes of momentarily catching the room unoccupied. After four days of this strategy he was finally rewarded and was able to search unhindered for about fifteen minutes. Not much time, but luck was with him and he came across a personal letter Donjeta was in the process of composing.
Scanning the contents, he realized the missive, with its salutation of “My dearest Mergim”, was undoubtedly intended for Mergim Hajdari himself. Through her written words the Princess crowed about how she and their “ever-loyal and faithful Zamir" were arranging for the illegal arms shipment to the orphanage in Albania.
“Soon you will have the means to fight with more than the vigor of your convictions,” the memo went on to say. “I will put guns in the hands of you and your men so you may end in explosions of freedom the lives of those who make Albania subject to whims other than those of its own people.”
Napoleon sighed. There was now no question that Donjeta knew of the clandestine arrangement to provide arms to the Albanian insurgents. More than that Solo truly doubted she did know, however. He didn’t think her Thrush; he merely thought her naïve and thus easily manipulated by Continetti. Her letter to the man he assumed was her stepbrother wreaked of misplaced idealism. Napoleon was an idealist himself, but he gave his beliefs far more grounding in reality than apparently did the young Princess Adjuvant.
Unhappily Napoleon stole the piece of telltale correspondence and hoped it would not be missed, that Donjeta would just assume she had secretly stowed it someplace other than where she thought she had. It was a risk, but one he had no choice but to take.
His heart crowded with conflicting emotions, Napoleon considered how he should approach Abriana with news of her sister’s dangerous liaison with Hajdari and Continetti. As fate would have it, the method of this was taken out of his hands.
The members of the Nascosten royal family were all seated within one of the private parlors in Castello di Marmo Scuro, a place where they were free from the constant watch of bodyguards. Abriana, Donjeta and Napoleon were all involved in a game of three-handed Skat. Solo had found the revealing letter in Donjeta’s office earlier in the day and had not yet hit upon a strategy he favored to bring the subject up with Abriana. For the moment he kept silent, trying to focus all his concentration on the harmless hand of cards.
A sound off to right brought all three to their feet, with Solo drawing the gun Abriana permitted him, for his “personal ease of mind”, to wear holstered under his suit jacket on most occasions. From a hidden panel near one of the bookcases entered a man unknown to Napoleon, but apparently known to the other two occupants of the room as Donjeta immediately rushed into his arms.
“Mergim!” she greeted him with enthusiastic joy.
“Motra pak,” the man gave his own greeting in Albanian. “Che cosa è questo?” he then asked in Italian with his eye on Napoleon and that drawn gun. “Perché questo uomo permesso di portare una pistola in presenza delle mie sorelle? Sei una guardia del corpo nuova, signore? " he further demanded of Napoleon.
{Translation: Little sister}
{Translation: What is this?}
[Translation: Why is this man allowed to carry a handgun in the presence of my sisters? Are you a new bodyguard, sir?}
“He is my husband, Mergim,” Abriana answered simply in English as she moved forward and gave Mergim a brief kiss on the cheek, “and I permit him to carry the gun in my presence.”
“Ah, the new Grand Consort,” Mergim now acknowledged in English as well. “I of course heard of your marriage, Abriana. He is an American, yes?”
“Yes,” Napoleon answered for himself as he reluctantly returned his weapon to its holster. “And I seem the only one in need of introductions here.”
“This is Mergim,” Abriana intervened before Donjeta could say anything. “He is… a relative,” she kept things vague.
“Black sheep of the family?” provoked Napoleon.
“Not in the least!” countered Donjeta hotly.
“Donjeta,” warned Abriana with all the surety of her own position as both older sibling and in order of official precedence. “I will explain everything to my husband in private. If you will excuse us.”
With that Abriana grasped Napoleon’s arm, and led him from the room where Donjeta and Mergim immediately went into a happy course of catching up.
Once within the shared sitting room of their adjoining chambers, Solo put the blunt question to Abriana. “Who is that man?”
Abriana took a deep breath. “My and Donjeta’s stepbrother.”
“How? I mean how is he related?
“He is the son of my stepmother, the late Grand Consort Ljena.”
Thus was Napoleon’s previous supposition confirmed.
“A secret son, I take it.”
“Yes,” admitted Abriana. “I have to tell you another story, Napoleon. But this one doesn’t have any sort of fairytale ending.”
“Tell me,” prompted Solo.
“Ljena was, as you know, one of the insurgents in Albania. That was how my father first met her. I’ve already told you how they were captured and subsequently separated by circumstances. My grandfather kept his promise to my father to get her released from detention by the Ottoman government of the time. But Ljena had not an easy time in prison and thus became even more determined against Ottoman rule in her home country.”
“Causing her to abandon her old religion, so that all ties she might be seen to have to such rule were removed,” interjected Napoleon with a small nod.
“Yes,” Abriana said with a nod of her own. “Despite the supposed achievement of independence in 1912, the Albanians were treated to constant encroachment within their borders by other governments, both in the form of military incursions and political maneuverings. Ljena, therefore, remained as part of a revolutionary fringe seeking full self-determination of Albania.
“Of that time in her life, I must be honest and say I know little,” went on the deceased woman’s stepdaughter. “But apparently she strove for her goals in any way possible and kept purposely in the shadows, gaining something of a reputation among the revolutionaries. Sometime around 1923, we have never been sure of the exact timeframe, she developed a romantic relationship with democratic idealist Avni Rustemi, the man who had killed Essad Pasha Toptani in Paris. That relationship, in the insecure political environment of Albania at the time, was never spoken of by any. When Rustemi was assassinated on June 10, 1924, Ljena went into even deeper hiding. It was during this period that Mergim was born. She gave him to others to raise, never wanting it known that Rustemi had a son as it might put the boy in danger.
“At the time of her marriage, Ljena told my father all about Mergim and it was agreed between them to keep everything regarding the then adolescent boy completely under wraps. The man who insured the security of this information was my father’s friend Zamir Continetti. Neither I nor Donjeta knew anything about Mergim until Ljena’s death. Then our father revealed this secret to us. The idea of having as a relation the son of a man many considered a democratic hero was wildly appealing to Donjeta. She sought out a means to communicate with him, and that means again wound up being Zamir Continetti. She began corresponding with Mergim on a regular basis, thrilled to find him as much a fighter for full Albanian self-determination as his mother and father had been before him.
“Neither she nor I ever met Mergim, however, until the death of my father. He came in secret to pay his respects and later made himself known to us. His identity was confirmed by Continetti though the Albanian contacts he maintains in the insurgent movement. Subsequently I made Tomas Grecco privy to the existence of Mergim, letting both Donjeta and her Accesso all’Orecchio know of my decision in that regard.
“That’s as much of the story as there is to tell, Napoleon. Mergim doesn’t flaunt in any public way his connection to us, and his coming here today is thus very much a surprise to me.”
“Do you think his coming as much of a surprise to Donjeta? Or to her Accesso all’Orecchio?” Solo wanted to know.
Abriana stared at him in some confusion. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Napoleon took a deep breath. The time for subterfuge was now over. Yet, as with Clara, he deeply regretted any hurt he must now inflict.
“Abriana, do you know of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement?”
“Vaguely. I know it is a sort of international peace-keeping organization which opposes no particular government, but rather the world-terrorizing schemes instigated by a mixed group of power-seeking individuals.”
“I am an agent for that organization,” Napoleon revealed as he set his eyes directly on hers.
“What?” came her bewildered question.
“There were…” he made an attempt to condense everything she needed to know into a cohesive but limited whole, “…suspicions regarding a plot to make use of the Nascosten royal family in a venture to… well, upset the global applecart as it were.”
“What sort of use?” she asked anxiously.
“A covert provision of illegal arms to the Albanian insurgency, in which Mergim is heavily involved, via the National Nascosten Benevolence.”
“You mean Donjeta…”
“I think Donjeta was manipulated by Continetti. But she does know about that illegal arms deal, Abriana. I have proof of that.”
Abriana shook her head in stunned disbelief. “I know she has a tendency to see things in rather a kind of tunnel vision, but…”
“Abriana, that’s truly only part of the equation. You see, Continetti is one of that mixed group of power-seeking individuals. And it’s highly unlikely his real concern is about providing arms for revolutionaries in his former country. Perhaps that would be understandable, if still a form of betrayal to you and your family. What he really wants is for that group of his to gain perhaps favorable regard with the Soviet government.”
“How would providing arms to the Albanian insurgents accomplish that?”
“The Soviets want Mergim. He is a declared enemy of the state. But they have never been able to apprehend him and are rather humiliated about that inability. I believe Continetti is setting up Mergim to be captured as a result of this arms deal. He is going to betray him, and Donjeta as well.”
Abriana stared at him, trying to come to terms with everything he had told her.
“We have to warn them, don’t we?” she queried uneasily.
“Yes, but it has to be done discreetly. We don’t want to put Continetti on his guard.”
“I’ll have them brought here, to our private sitting room, and we’ll speak to them together.”
“That we will, but we need an inconspicuous messenger.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Abriana with a furrowing of her brow.
“Beppe, I’ll send Beppe,” decided Napoleon.
“Yes,” Abriana approved his selection. “Beppe would be the best choice. But Napoleon, during this meeting, I can’t allow you to wear your sidearm.”
“Abriana—“
“Please, Napoleon,” interjected Abriana with a pleading note in her voice and an equally pleading look in her eyes. “I don’t want Donjeta or even Mergim to think I mean to take any punitive action toward either of them. Not at this point. Not when they are so caught in a web only partially of their own making.”
Napoleon reluctantly nodded his acceptance of her request and then summoned Beppe via an accessible bell rope in the room.
“Bring the Princess Adjuvant and the man accompanying her in the south private parlor here into the presence of Her Gracious Highness,” Napoleon instructed the servant. Then he removed the Walther from the holster under his suit coat and handed it off to Beppe. “And put this away safely for me,” he additionally charged.
“August Sir,” Beppe gave the customary slight bow and left to do what had been asked of him.
Meanwhile in the office of Zamir Continetti an urgent phone call was being received.
“Are you a fool to attempt contact with me in this way, Milot?” Zamir, in Albanian, chastised the man on the other end of the connection.
“I had no choice, Zamir, as other channels might prove too slow for this news,” Milot continued the conversation in the same tongue. “We might have to change the drop point for the arms shipment. There have been too many people snooping about.”
“Stop being paranoid. It is likely just the usual Soviet surveillance.”
“This wasn’t the Soviets. Their methods aren’t quite so… polished.
“What are your particular suspicions then?” asked Continetti rather irritably. He was certain the man was overreacting, a typical occurrence with these dedicated revolutionary types.
“I haven’t a clue, Zamir! They were good. I couldn’t garner any traceable hint as to who they might be. But that they were there and making inquiries: that I do know.”
“Milot, let me assure you,” Continetti began a spiel aimed at putting the man’s mind at rest. And then he stopped short. Polished? Making inquiries and yet not traceable as to where those inquiries might be coming from? Or where the information was being dispatched to?
Then the memory of those previous mental red flags he had so nonchalantly ignored waved like a matador's cape within his brain. Napoleon Solo and his abstract vision of right. Napoleon Solo and that requested change to the marriage vows. Napoleon Solo asking about vetting the orphanage through his own sources. “U.N.C.L.E.!” exclaimed Continetti in frustration.
Central was getting lax! They hadn’t given him any information about Napoleon Solo. They apparently didn’t even know of the man. And now Continetti was all but positive Solo was a field operative of U.N.C.L.E.
“What’s that you say, Zamir?”
“Never mind. I’ll handle everything from here.”
“Wait, Zamir!” Milot caught the man’s attention before he could hang up. “You should know that Mergim slipped out by boat across the Adriatic sometime this morning. I’m sure his intent is to speak with you there in Diamant-Grezzo and personally let you know about all I’ve just told you.”
“Why did you let him go?” demanded the highly aggravated Continetti.
“You know Mergim. Who can stop him when he makes up his mind?”
“That arrogant, irrational clod! He’ll ruin everything!”
“Zamir!” exclaimed a shocked Milot. “Mergim is the main reason any of us here in Albania are willing to take the risks we do. We have much to lose and only his courage and determination rouses us—”
“Yes, yes,” Continetti cut off the other man’s speech in praise of Një nga Hijet. “I’ll handle everything from here as I said.” And with that he slammed down the receiver of the phone.
Mergim running loose in Nascoste and the Grand Princess married to an U.N.C.L.E. plant! Things were crumbling about his ears!
Once upon a time Zamir Continetti had been as much of a revolutionary zealot as now was Mergim Hajdari. He had, however, witnessed too near at hand politics being used in personal sprees by unconscionable men. Unconscionable men that average citizens then followed like lemmings, content to let others decide their fate. That had left him with an abhorrence of visionary yearnings spouted by people who in the end would follow whatever leader stood at the ready with pretty words and empty promises on his lips. Thus why pretend it could ever be otherwise? Why not simply seek personal power to begin with? Embittered and hardened, with his ideals crushed completely under the tread of heavy boots, Continetti had been the perfect recruit for Thrush. And he had served them well, and wasn’t about to be tossed in the trash heap by them anymore than by anyone else. He deserved his time of triumph, and he would have it!
First though he needed to be rid of the unexpected obstacle posed by Mr. Napoleon Solo.
Zamir stood and opened a secreted wall panel to reveal a personal safe. He dialed in the combination and unlocked the small vault, subsequently removing from its interior a semiautomatic handgun.
The meeting of Abriana and Napoleon with Donjeta and Mergim was not going well. The latter two simply refused to believe in Continetti’s perfidy.
“Zamir will not betray me!” insisted Donjeta. “And certainly he would not betray Mergim! His heart has always been with the cause of Albanian self-determination!”
“I don’t know about his heart, but his actions are bound to Thrush,” Napoleon countered his sister-in-law.
“Thrush, thrush, thrush!” spat out Mergim. “And why should we be concerned with the curious nesting habits of little birds?”
“Because those 'curious nesting habits' can destroy everything you believe in, everything you fight for,” retorted Napoleon. “You don’t seem to understand the scope of any of this!”
“Of course not, Mr. Solo,” came an unexpected voice. Everyone turned to the source, Zamir Continetti, who had apparently made his way in through another of the secret wall panels similar to that in the south parlor. “He’s a zealot and zealots never see beyond the length of their own noses.”
“What right have you to make such a clandestine entrance into my private chambers?” Abriana put up a bravely affronted stance, ignoring the wild beat of terror in her own heart as she saw the gun clutched in Continetti’s firm grip.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Gracious Highness,” Continetti smugly pretended an apology. “I know these secret passages were ordered sealed many years ago, but sometimes a bit of bribery to construction managers does indeed reveal loopholes in such orders. I was hoping, however, to find Mr. Solo alone. Isn’t this the usual timing of your daily reviews of upcoming edicts with the Minister of Internal Affairs?” Continetti clucked his tongue. “Missing governmental meetings to chat with family. Wherever is your sense of duty, Gracious Highness?”
“Certainly not in the same stinkhole where you’ve flushed yours,” Abriana flung back at him fiercely. Solo gently took one of his wife’s hands in his, seeking to silently counsel caution since it was Continetti with the advantage of a cocked gun.
“Put that gun away, Zamir,” Mergim commanded in the tone of one who expected to be obeyed.
Continetti let out a small laugh. “You do not cow me, oh Një nga Hijet. Nor do I stumble at your feet like the cattle of your insurgent herd.”
To say Mergim was shocked was putting it but mildly. The man’s expression was positively stunned.
“Zamir, there are bodyguards outside this room,” a definitely incensed Princess Adjuvant reminded her Accesso all’Orecchio.
“No, there aren’t. I made sure of it,” Zamir informed her in turn. “Haven’t you yourself, Highness, often commented on my notable efficiency?”
“So what do you intend to do, Continetti?” queried Solo brusquely. “Shoot the entire royal family of Nascoste?”
“Such a sad necessity, but you see there was this Albanian rebel who claimed familial ties to the royals and who, in a demonstration of his extremist principles, killed them all before turning the gun on himself.”
“You’ll never get away with that,” the Grand Princess denied the fabricated solution to his current dilemma.
“I’m more than willing to try,” challenged Continetti in a stone-cold voice.
In an instant Napoleon lunged toward Continetti, intending to knock him off-balance even if he had to take a bullet for it. Everything became confusion. Abriana screamed as the gun in Continetti’s hand, angled down by Solo’s bodily hit, glanced a bullet off Napoleon’s thigh, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. Despite his injury, Solo continued to struggle with Continetti on the floor for possession of the weapon. Continetti raised his hand wildly in the air, impulsively squeezing the trigger of the gun once more, the muzzle pointed in the direction of a charging Mergim. Donjeta tackled her stepbrother to clear him from the path of the shot and herself took a glancing blow across the abdomen for her effort. Napoleon, now on his back with the huge-framed Continetti on top of him pinning him to the floor, managed to knock the semiautomatic from his assailant’s hand. The report of a third shot dropped Continetti heavily onto Napoleon’s body, the traitorous minister hit squarely in the upper back and definitely quite dead.
Abriana placed a trembling hand across her mouth as she looked across the room where stood the valet Beppe with Solo’s Walther in hand, the gun muzzle still hotly smoking.
“He demeaned the honor of the royal family of Nascoste,” pronounced Beppe in a tight voice.
Rolling the substantial body of Continetti off his own, Solo managed to get to Beppe and calmly take the gun from the dazed manservant’s hand before his injured leg gave way and a stab of excruciating pain tossed him over the far edge of consciousness.
Napoleon awoke to the feel of heavy numbness in his left leg and gentle fingers carding through his hair. At the realization he was awake, Abriana stopped the soothing motion of those fingers almost in a recoil, as if she had been caught doing something she no longer had a right to do.
“You’re awake at last,” she remarked rather inanely.
“At last?” questioned Napoleon in a somewhat hoarsened voice.
“The doctors gave you injections to keep you unconscious while they sutured and wrapped your leg. And then afterwards so you wouldn’t move about too much, keeping you asleep for two days. You had everyone really worried, Napoleon. The bullet you took to the left leg lightly glanced your femoral artery. Luckily the nick was small and there was no associated nerve damage. Emergency meds got a tourniquet on the leg quickly to stop the bleeding, and the vascular surgery proved an unqualified success. Still, nobody could believe you actually limped over to Beppe on that leg.”
“That was pure adrenaline,” admitted Solo.
Abriana nodded. “In any case the doctors say it will heal completely.”
“What about Donjeta?”
“She’ll make it. Though the doctors predict, that due to some damage to the uterine wall, she’ll never be able to bear children.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I suppose it’s fortunate in a way.”
“Fortunate?” queried Napoleon with a raised eyebrow.
“As now any future heirs of Nascoste will have to come from my direct line,” Abriana expounded, “it provides the perfect exit for you, from our marriage.”
“Oh,” was all Solo found himself comfortable enough to remark.
Abriana took a little huff of breath and then sat down in a nearby chair. “Mr. Davies of the American Embassy put me in direct touch with your Mr. Waverly in the New York headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” she stated straight to the point. “He was very kind and explained everything to me. He was also extremely helpful with Mergim, arranging for him to get a new identity and a new life far away from both Albania and Nascoste.
“And he specifically wanted me to tell you that the Soviets have agreed to provide a candidate for the first session of U.N.C.L.E. training school in the new year.”
“I suppose then I did a good job,” Napoleon decided with a noticeable glumness in his tone.
Abriana’s lips curled in an ironic smile. “I suppose you did.”
Biting her lower lip in consternation for a moment, Abriana finally continued, “Tomas and others of my ministers have advised that my coronation take place as planned eight days from now. I’m not sure how I feel about that myself, but I have acquiesced to their counsel. The doctors tell me that you likely will be able to attend the ceremony in a wheelchair, if you so desire.”
“I so desire, Abriana; I honestly do,” spoke Napoleon in a saddened but sincere manner.
“Then it will be so,” she declared in the secure tone of royal prerogative. “Rest well, Napoleon.”
She rose to take her leave, hesitating for a long moment, as if unsure about something. Then she seemed to make an internal decision and walked up once more close beside his hospital bed. Leaning over him, she kissed him softly on the forehead.
Eight days later Abriana Pranvera Celestina was crowned Grand Princess of Nascoste with all due pomp and circumstance. Seated in a wheelchair tucked in the royal alcove of the Cathedral of the Seven Holy Martyrs in Diamant-Grezzo on that celebratory day, Grand Consort Napoleon Solo watched through the unexplainable tears clouding his vision.
Two Weeks Later
He entered her private study, bowing wordlessly from the waist in acknowledgement of her presence. From where she calmly stood behind her desk, she gazed across the full expanse of the room at him. Her polished veneer of poise betrayed nothing of any internal disquiet. Yet could Napoleon sense her intense emotional hurt almost as a blanket of fog that obscured their full images one from the other.
“I have read the contents of the declaration prepared to announce the dissolution of our marriage to the public,” Abriana at last broke the long silence that stretched between them. “The manner of it meets well with my approval. It is heartbreakingly touching, speaking as it does of your ‘gentle ending of the fairytale’ in order to permit me to get on with ‘the inescapable realities’ of my position as ruler of this nation. There will not be a dry eye amongst any of the citizenry when it is broadcast.”
“Thank you for allowing me to appear in this as such a noble character,” Napoleon sincerely expressed his gratitude.
“How could I make you appear as anything less than what you are?”
“It would be understandable were you to resent my role in all this.”
“I do not now nor will I ever resent anything about your role in my life, Napoleon, despite its transience,” she assured him, her tone now more personal, almost unbearably intimate.
Napoleon didn’t know what to say. Even in this, she was as gracious as her prescribed form of ceremonial address proclaimed.
“But there is another declaration, the contents of which I wish you to read,” she requested simply, “as it will be entirely your choice whether it is ever made public or not.”
She lifted a paper from the desktop and extended it toward him. Still nursing a slight limp, he walked to the front of the wooden table elaborately carved with the national Nascosten coat-of-arms, noting to himself how it seemed to serve now as more than simply a physical barrier between them. After accepting the proffered document from her hand, he scanned it thoroughly. Finally he raised astonished eyes to hers.
“If I decree this as truth, it can be so,” came her frank statement.
The document in question proclaimed a lineage had been uncovered on the LaCoursiere side of Napoleon’s maternal heritage linking him to old French nobility. He knew exactly the purpose of that invented ancestry: the morganatic marriage from which he would, with globally perceived altruistic intent, free his monarchical wife could then be declared fully valid with regard to the royal inheritance edicts of Nascoste. Swept away in that scenario would be any presumed “selfish impediment” to the continuance of the union, presenting the possibility of his remaining at the lady’s side as a legally suitable spouse. To say Napoleon was absolutely flabbergasted that the Grand Princess would risk this legislative lie for him was describing his reaction but mildly indeed.
“It would be no more than another fairytale,” he forwarded with an aching tenderness in his voice. “And a very unwise one at that.”
“Because by the moral and legal standards of the world your birth is in principle illegitimate?” she straightforwardly pursued his unspoken reservation.
Napoleon blinked. He was completely shocked and somewhat shamed that she had discovered the family secret so carefully buried for so many years by his two powerful grandfathers.
“You needn’t fret, Napoleon. Your grandfathers initially, and no doubt U.N.C.L.E. subsequently, did a very good job of hiding that inconsequential technicality. My ministers and investigators found nothing at all to even hint at such. It was Mr. Waverly himself who informed me of it, when I spoke to him in privacy about this – shall we say – enhanced genealogical background I had designed for you. He quite succinctly made the point that, even were you personally inclined to accept my little slight-of-legal-hand, your inherent decency of nature would not permit you to do so because of the particular circumstances regarding your direct parental history.”
Napoleon supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Mr. Waverly not only knew this hush-hush reality, but also that the Old Man understood so well the underlying personality of his operative. Yet then again Napoleon hadn’t until recently realized how very tightly bound to U.N.C.L.E. every aspect of his life had become.
Abriana’s eyes held Napoleon’s once more. “In any case, your deceptively gentlemanly superior needn’t have hedged his bets by revealing your private humiliation to me. I can see by the distressing wretchedness of your expression that you would never be inclined to accept my heartfelt offer.”
“Gracious Highness,” began the genuinely distraught Napoleon. “Abriana,” he stumbled out more softly.
“So the fairytale does indeed end here,” Abriana forestalled any self-conscious words on his part. “U.N.C.L.E. whisked you into my life and now will whisk you away. And all that will remain of our engineered encounter are fond memories and questions that must forever go unanswered.”
“Ask whatever questions you will of me, and I will honestly answer,” he wholeheartedly pledged her.
She smiled sadly.
“Do I still love you, Napoleon?” she queried unexpectedly.
“I would imagine not,” answered Napoleon with a very sad smile of his own.
“Did you ever love me, Napoleon?” she voiced her final question.
“Not as you would have had me do.”
“Therein lies the essence of the matter: for you loved me only as you love any innocent of this world in need of saving.”
“I still love you in that way,” he assured her.
“And that must suffice me because there is no more to be had.”
She formally put out her hand to him, reaching easily across the solidness of the desk that divided them in more ways than one. Napoleon again bowed from the waist as he took her hand in his and pressed his lips lightly against her fingers, managing with kindly consideration of her feelings to match his formality of gesture to her own.
“Your Gracious Highness,” he appropriately addressed her in final farewell. And then he made his way out of her private study and out of her private life.
“Yet can I take cold comfort in the knowing,” Abriana thought resignedly after his exit, “that U.N.C.L.E. will always claim more of him than any woman could ever hope to possess.”
December 1957
New York City
It had taken Napoleon several months of cajoling to get Clara to forgive him his U.N.C.L.E.-instigated marriage to the Grand Princess of Nascoste. Yet the pair was now beyond all that stressful unease, more than two years beyond.
Everyday Napoleon thanked his lucky stars that Clara had eventually come around. What finally had convinced her to “bestow absolution” had been his assurances there could be no more such assignments. Thrush now had a dossier on him, and thus any undercover operation in which he was involved would of necessity have to be less in the public view. And as well this first significant mission of his as a Section II agent had truly been a unique case.
“It was a remarkably singular fall of the dice, Clara,” he had explained. “My being virtually unknown to Thrush. My particular upbringing that led to a fortuitous childhood encounter with the Grand Princess. Abriana’s secret need for some touchstone back to the innocence of her own childhood at a particular point in her life when adult responsibilities of the most restrictive variety were seemingly about to overwhelm her. The need for U.N.C.L.E. to have a presence inside the Nascosten royal family circle in order to figure out what exact manipulations Thrush intended on making via its influence on the Princess Adjuvant, an influence that could pay a higher dividend for them if Donjeta was the recognized heir apparent. Truly, Clara, it’s a set of circumstances that had absolutely astronomical odds of ever coming together at all. Let alone there ever being by the chaotic rules of chance a recurrence of anything even remotely similar.”
She had accepted the truth of that and in the end they had “kissed and made up”. And now they were an engaged couple, if a surreptitious one due to the restrictions of Solo’s position in Section II. Tonight they were spending a quiet night together in Napoleon’s apartment, eating Chinese takeout from cardboard cartons, and cuddling on the sofa while they casually watched the evening news. It was holiday time and it seemed that the television reporters were joyously embracing human-interest stories over more depressing fare.
“It’s a truly celebratory Christmas season in Nascoste!” informed a broadly smiling broadcaster on the electronic box that was gradually becoming ubiquitous in every American household. “Today it was announced by the palace that Grand Princess Abriana, the reigning monarch of the small island nation, will wed in the summer of the coming year Lucca Barberini, an Italian citizen who can trace his ancestral roots back to the noble Colonna family of Palestrina.”
As the on-air reporter chattily relayed his story, black-and-white images of the Nascosten Grand Princess and her new fiancé flickered across the screen. Clara stiffened and sat up straighter, perceptibly increasing the distance between Napoleon’s body and her own. To Solo it seemed the temperature of his usually comfortable living room dropped by several very discernible degrees.
“She looks happy,” Napoleon made an awkward verbal attempt to break the even more awkward silence.
“She merely looks pleased,” countered Clara in a rather clipped tone. “She looked happy with you though, positively blissful from what I recall of the press coverage.”
“She was a few years younger and a good deal less life experienced,” he found his words taking on as snappish an edge as Clara’s. “Thus fairytales still seemed plausible to her.”
Would Clara never truly get past this? He had married the princess as part of a mission assignment. He hadn’t loved her, at least not as a man should love the woman to whom he makes a lifetime commitment. His only true commitment in the union with Abriana had been to U.N.C.L.E.
Clara turned to face him, her manner strangely timid and her tear-glazed eyes appearing incredibly huge and thus almost childlike. “I hadn’t the courage to ask this when you initially came back from Nascoste,” she admitted hesitantly, “back to me. I’m not even sure I have that courage now. Yet the question keeps rattling around in my head like the remnants of a broken wedding-toast champagne flute. And I want them gone, those sharply hurtful crystalline shards; so I have to ask.”
Napoleon furrowed his brow in concern. She seemed suddenly so vulnerable, so defenseless. “Ask what, Clara?” he prompted gently.
“In your time with Abriana,” she began; then halted and bit her lower lip in consternation. “During all thos weeks when you were an adoring couple in the eyes of the world and even in her eyes…” She halted again and took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to put this. I just don’t have the right words. But… well, was it a real marriage, Napoleon?”
The emphasis she put on the word “real” revealed to Napoleon the crux of her question. He cleared his suddenly painfully dry throat.
“What do you want me to say, Clara? How would you have me answer?”
“You don’t have to say anything else,” Clara assured him in a very quiet and rather strained voice. “You’ve already given me the answer.”
“And I know it’s not the one you wanted to hear,” he conceded as he ran a frustrated hand though his dark hair, dislodging the controlled placement of his forelock. “But I’m no saint, Clara. I don’t have the internal fortitude to stoically resist temptation placed so willingly in my direct purview.”
“Unless it is at the insistence of Mr. Waverly and suits the needs of U.N.C.L.E.,” batted back Clara with a careless certainty that caught Napoleon completely off-guard.
Napoleon gaped. “What? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind, Napoleon,” Clara backed off readily. “None of it really matters,” she deceived herself just as readily as she snuggled her body again close to his.
She just couldn’t summon the stomach for this fight. It was Christmas after all, and she desperately wanted something of her own fairytale. She loved this man beside her so very much, and she simply didn’t want to believe that might not in the end prove enough.
—The End—
A Final Word from the Author: Once upon a time, when MFU was still but a glint in the eye of Norman Felton, a background was created for Napoleon Solo that included a marriage at a young age, his wife dying less than a year into the union. Like many initial thoughts, this one was not pursued in the series. I would venture to say in the end it purposely wasn’t used because widowers in the 1960s were viewed as rather stable fellows and definitely not as sexy womanizing spy-types.
In any case, Clara Richards – the one-time great love of NS – seemingly replaced the persona of the dead wife within the framework of the TV show. It was unquestionably more romantic for Napoleon to have fully loved and ultimately lost because of his work in U.N.C.L.E. rather than because of a traffic accident. Who can forget the poignancy of the episode THE TERBUF AFFAIR that highlighted the past and present relationship between NS and Clara?
Now some fanfic writers embrace the dead wife idea and certainly more creative power to them. Yet for me Clara is Napoleon’s definitive love: the one he always regretted losing, though it was just not in him to abandon his dedication to U.N.C.L.E. in order to keep her.
Yet when the morganatic marriage concept came up as related to “left-handedness” being explained in a socio-cultural way, the thought rocketed into my head to utilize that as a “wicked twist” scenario for the HODOWE challenge. A twist that did indeed have NS marrying at a young age (he is only 22 in this story), but at U.N.C.L.E.’s behest. To me this invokes the first true test of Solo’s unwavering commitment to U.N.C.L.E. And thus this particular scenario in my opinion has more emotional pith than any commonplace tale of teenage passion and tragic happenstance.
Act IV: Ever After
Sunlight sneaking in bright ribbons through the curtains of the bedchamber window gently awakened Abriana. She languidly stretched her naked body within the comfy nest of bedclothes and then turned with a radiant smile to gaze upon the slumbering visage of her new husband. Curling onto her side to snuggle closer to his warm and equally naked body, she positioned her head upon his chest to listen to his sleep-slowed yet satisfyingly rhythmic heartbeat. She had never before in her life been this completely content.
With a happy sigh, she burrowed even closer, the soft sound and soothing movement finally rousing Napoleon from the land of dreams. He focused his sleep-glazed eyes upon the woman lying with her head on his chest. Expecting in his mind’s eye to see Clara there, he was for an instant totally disoriented by the vision of someone other than she cuddling close in a shared bed. He quickly quelled that flash of internal confusion, however, as recognition of his current situation and of his new wife returned in full measure.
“Sleep well, my darling?” The totally relaxed and eminently blissful Abriana all but purred out the question.
“How could I help but do so?” Napoleon quipped with a roguish smirk. “After so much enthusiastic exercise on the night before?”
Abriana’s response was a blush accompanied by an impish smirk of her own and accented by a light punch to his upper arm. “Have you no sense of decorum, August Sir?”
“Not in bed,” forwarded Napoleon candidly.
“So I noticed last night,” Abriana assured him just as candidly.
And then the both of them broke into a bout of quiet laughter.
Beneath the cover of that easy laughter though, Napoleon’s private emotions were churning round and round. Clara: would she understand? Clara: could he even expect her to understand? Clara: had he forfeited her love forever?
“Napoleon?” Abriana called his attention fully back to present realities with a seriously-toned address.
“Hmmm?” he gave a barely verbal reply as the current woman in his bed took to enticingly rubbing a hand back-and-forth across his bare chest.
“I know this will likely sound silly, but… Have you ever… well… felt as if you just couldn’t get physically close enough to someone? As if what you wanted more than anything was somehow to get right inside the other person’s skin?”
Napoleon wasn’t certain how to answer that particular query. Had he ever felt that way? Yes… with Clara.
“I think your memory is a bit off with regard to just who has the ability to get inside whose skin,” he therefore avoided the dilemma with teasing innuendo.
What that garnered him was another light punch to the upper arm from Abriana, along with another round of quiet laughter on her part. Raising her head up off his chest and looking straight into his eyes, she subsequently inveigled with a mischievous grin, “Remind me.”
And that Napoleon did. Because he was an U.N.C.L.E. agent with a mission to complete. But more because her naïve sweetness tempted him with temporary forgetfulness of the hurt he was inflicting upon the heart of his Clara.
The duo honeymooned on the Amalfi Coast. After arriving by private plane in Naples, they booked a hydrofoil to Sorrento. From there they took off on the famously winding roads in a fire-engine red Alfa Romeo Barchetta convertible that Napoleon absolutely adored. Their bodyguards kept a discreet distance in a separate (and less eye-catching car) as the royal couple traveled to Positano, to Furore, to Ravello, to Amalfi, to Praiano, and then back to Positano.
Enjoying themselves like tourists, the pair reveled in the seaside and mountain views, the quaint towns and landmark churches, and stayed overnight with carefree ease in one preapproved venue or another as the mood struck them. Finally they embarked on a chartered ferry to return from Positano to Sorrento, and then on a private vessel to voyage from Sorrento to Capri, where they lazed in the sun for the remaining few days of their post-wedding jaunt. On the morning of the twelfth day after their marriage, a final boat ride brought the Grand Princess Abriana and her Grand Consort Napoleon Solo back to Naples. A private plane was waiting at the Capodichino Airport to return them to Diamant-Grezzo and the full responsibilities of their relative positions in Nascoste.
In many ways the honeymoon trip had been an indulgent luxury, what with the close proximity to the date of Abriana’s formal coronation. Yet was it a luxury Abriana had been unwilling to forego. So now, just three-and-half weeks before that all-important scheduled ceremony, the regal couple returned to a furor of activity in Castello di Marmo Scuro. While Abriana went immediately into meetings with her Minister of Internal Affairs, Solo went sailing on the catamaran.
Grecco was not pleased when Napoleon noted to Abriana his plans for the afternoon. The time had come for decisions on what part the new Grand Consort would play in Nascosten governmental affairs. Tomas urgently wanted to get Napoleon’s own feedback on this. But Napoleon insisted on the boating excursion, saying it would likely be the last time he could manage such until after the coronation. Abriana had agreed, stating to Tomas there were matters that initially needed to be discussed between herself and the minister prior to Solo’s input being sought. Reluctantly, Grecco acquiesced to the wishes of his sovereign.
Napoleon’s expressed desire for an outing on the catamaran had nothing to do with wanting to postpone more weighty concerns. He needed to contact U.N.C.L.E. rather urgently as he hadn’t been able to do so at all during the honeymoon. He hadn’t even taken his communicator across the sea with him to Italy, knowing there would be no opportunity to make clandestine use of it. Thus, before making his way to the private royal dock, he took a few minutes to retrieve the communications instrument from its hiding place in his former chambers. Upon finding the supposed cigarette case exactly where he had left it, he breathed a sigh of silent relief that no overzealous maid had uncovered it during the final cleaning of those rooms and the move of his possessions into his new private suite adjoining that of Abriana.
As Grand Consort, Solo was now required to have a bodyguard near-at-hand during his sails. Thankfully the man assigned to him only shadowed in a motorized daysailer rather than insisting upon being actually onboard the same craft as the August Sir. Napoleon had to play a bit of hide-and-seek to insure his use of the communicator was veiled from ready view of the bodyguard. This he accomplished by interposing the wind-filled canvas of his own vessel between himself and the man’s sightline. He was a spy after all.
“Open Channel D. Solo to New York.”
“Back from your honeymoon, I take it, Mr. Solo?” Mr. Waverly’s voice responded with more swiftness than Napoleon had expected.
“Yes sir. Has Section III or Section IV been able to garner any intelligence about the possible Albanian stepbrother?”
“That is proving a difficult matter, Mr. Solo. Whatever secrets are being hidden, they are buried uncommonly deep. But we did manage to come up with a possible match with regard to an Albanian revolutionary who is currently very much in the negative sights of the Soviets. One Mergim Hajdari.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard the name before.”
“You likely wouldn’t have, Mr. Solo. In revolutionary circles he goes by the pseudonym Një nga Hijet.”
{Translation: One of the Shadows}
“Now that name is somewhat familiar.”
“Indeed. A zealot in the truest sense of the word who obsessively seeks Albanian political self-determination. More than one Soviet warrant has been issued for his arrest and detention, but he is a slippery one with apparently much support throughout the local citizenry.”
“I imagine the Soviet government is truly less than fond of him then.”
“That’s putting it mildly, Mr. Solo. In fact, whenever I attempted to get any real information about the man from my own Russian sources, they so much as told me to keep out of Soviet national business.”
Napoleon was shocked. Waverly was well regarded by the international political elite and thus could almost without fail get inside data by pulling a few personal strings. That such apparently hadn’t worked in this particular case spoke volumes about the level of threat the Soviets considered this Një nga Hijet to be.
“Do we know anything about his familial background?” Solo further queried.
“Next to nothing. He was brought up by adoptive parents, both now deceased. If they had any clue regarding the specifics of his birth, they took it to their graves.”
“Could he possibly be an illegitimate son of the late Nascosten Grand Prince Adalfieri?” Solo suggested to his superior.
“Not likely, Mr. Solo. Hajdari is approximately thirty years of age. Thus his birthdate is around 1925. Grand Prince Adalfieri, who had gained the throne of Nascoste just the year before, was rather occupied at that point with some unexpected serious financial problems in his principality. Thus he traveled outside his island realm not at all that year or the previous or the next.”
“Well, still a possibility. Yet you’re of course right, sir; it’s not likely. What about Continetti?”
“Ah, there we have a more likely possibility. Continetti, as a teenager, was part of the insurgent forces during the 1910 revolt in Albania. Thus was how he first came in contact with then Crown Prince Adalfieri. He’s an Albanian by birth, but traveled to Nascoste around 1913 or so at the invitation of the Crown Prince to take up a post within the young heir's household. It seems Prince Adalfieri considered Continetti, who was just a year younger than himself, as much a friend as a political associate. In 1925 Continetti returned to his native country to champion the new Albanian Republic. But when the republic failed, he made Nascoste his permanent home, becoming a naturalized citizen. He’s held various positions in the Nascosten government since that time.”
“And Continetti has an extremely huge influence on Princess Adjuvant Donjeta. But the stepbrother reference is still a bit ambiguous in that scenario.”
“Missing pieces to the puzzle: agreed, Mr. Solo. Have you made any inquiries of your wife in this regard?”
Napoleon foolishly felt his face flush crimson. “I… uh… well… no.”
“For pity’s sake, why ever not, young man?” demanded a rather irritated Waverly.
“You yourself said I had to be circumspect about possibly unjustly accusing Donjeta of any wrongdoing, sir.” Napoleon fell back on the initial instructions he had been given regarding his mission.
“Of course, but the Grand Princess is now your wife! Thus you have a right to be made privy to any possible skeletons in the family closet!”
Thinking of one particular skeleton in his own family closet, Napoleon couldn’t help but comment, “Speaking about rights in such instances can often be a self-tripping exercise, sir.”
For a long moment the line went quiet, causing Solo to wonder if maybe the connection had gone dead. But then came again the voice of the Continental Chief, sounding a bit apologetic in Napoleon’s ears. Though Solo was willing to concede he was conceivably imagining something in his superior’s vocal tone that just wasn’t there.
“Do as you think best, Mr. Solo. But we do need to gather up all the necessary pieces of this puzzle as quickly as possible.”
“Understood, sir. Solo, out.”
“As you have a background in coordinating charitable endeavors, Napoleon,” Abriana extrapolated to her husband, “you are perfect for this task.”
“So this aid organization your family controls,” Napoleon sought clarification, “is international in scope?”
Abriana nodded. “We have global humanitarian goals similar to those of the concern you worked for.”
“I doubt that,” Napoleon couldn’t resist a mental caveat, though of course he said nothing outright.
“You’ll have to co-manage this with Donjeta of course. As Princess Adjuvant, her position automatically puts her in the lead of anything meant for the societal benefit of the people of Nascoste.”
“I have no issue with such restrictions, Abriana,” Napoleon assured his wife. “Your country, your rules,” he added with a sly wink.
His wife laughed lightly. “Though I will admit I am less than keen on sharing you with Donjeta even in so procedural a manner,” she then remarked with a bit of a crooked grin.
“My possessive little autocrat,” teased Napoleon as he leaned well over the desk in the private study of the Grand Princess, where they currently sat across from one another, to place an affectionate peck on her lips. “So when do I begin this new Grand Consortly duty?”
“As soon as possible. I want the people of this nation to recognize you as a fully functioning part of this monarchy.”
“Don’t want me labeled a slug-a-bed boy-toy, eh?” Napoleon playfully mocked with a raised eyebrow.
Abriana laughed merrily. “I don’t in the least mind toying with you in bed. But, being so much thrust in the public eye, we both need to have more civic-minded occupations as well. Therefore, Grecco will arrange within a few days an initial meeting on this facet of your new position with my sister and her Accesso all’Orecchio. Beppe will subsequently be provided with all the scheduling details for entry in your daily diary.”
“Ah. Then it is assured I will not only be on time to this consultation but extremely well-dressed!” gibed Solo. “Beppe, after all, is a wonder of gentlemanly gentleman proficiency.”
“Well, he does have a wonder of a gentleman to gentleman for,” noted Abriana in return, as she stood to lean over the intervening desk and place a warm kiss of her own on his lips.
Three days later Napoleon was seated in the private study of the Princess Adjuvant going over a list of charities to which the National Nascosten Benevolence had in the recent past or would be in the near future providing donations in one form or another. Medical equipment; various vaccines and pharmaceutical drugs; educational assistance in the form of books and other supplies; clean water facilities, food provisions; warm clothing depots; funding for the repair and upkeep of orphanages, hospitals, schools and old age homes.
“As you can see from that list, Napoleon, my choice of avenues to furnish support is rather eclectic,” commented Donjeta with a ready smile as her brother-in-law continued to peruse the provided documentation.
“Indeed,” Solo agreed. “But I take no issue with that as long as all these distribution channels have been thoroughly vetted.”
“Zamir takes more than admirable care of such details,” noted the Princess with a nod toward her Accesso all’Orecchio.
“Your Highness,” Continetti acknowledged the compliment paid him with a nod of his own.
“I trust your diligence to be more than adequate, Mr. Continetti,” lied Napoleon smoothly. “Still, I hope you will not take offense if I do some checking via my own sources?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Solo. As there is nothing to hide, there is no cause for offense on my part.”
“Cool as a cucumber,” Napoleon mentally assessed the man. “I do see one entry here that gives me pause,” he then verbally stated to Donjeta.
“What entry would that be, Napoleon?”
“This rather substantial monetary outlay to Fëmijët e Engjëjve Orphanage in Shkodër, Albania.”
“A sad case that, Mr. Solo, a very sad case,” put in Continetti with a distressed frown.
“Indeed, Zamir,” chimed in Donjeta. “It’s an orphanage that houses children with life-threatening medical issues who have been abandoned by their families for such reasons. Zamir himself brought its needs to my attention.”
“I was born and raised in Albania as you undoubtedly know, Mr. Solo,” Continetti expounded easily. “Though I have settled most happily here in Diamant-Grezzo, Shkodër is my original hometown. Thus I personally recall the outstanding humanitarian work done by that orphanage. It currently operates under very difficult circumstances, however, as it once had direct ties to the Catholic Church, ties that the Soviet government has more than once suggested have never been fully severed.”
“Difficult circumstances to be sure,” commiserated Napoleon.
“Some months ago I heard through friends in my former country that the orphanage was in desperate need of a half-dozen iron lungs for the treatment of young polio victims. But the Soviet government,” Continetti continued, an identifiable bitterness sneaking into his voice, “would not provide these because of the accused Catholic connection of the institution.”
“So the Benevolence is stepping in to provide the required equipment,” finalized Donjeta.
“Not to sound too critical,” Napoleon forwarded, “but isn’t the sum mentioned in these records rather large to account for the purchase of six iron lungs?”
“Just so,” the Princess Adjuvant conceded, “for you see I decided, upon hearing the tale of the orphanage’s plight, to arrange for a full reequip of its infirmary.”
“And the Soviet government approved this plan?” doubted Solo.
“Not as of yet. But Zamir will, shortly after my sister’s coronation, undertake a diplomatic mission to Moscow to convince the Soviets that allowing this altruistic endeavor would be a publicity boon for them in the eyes of the world at large.”
“I see,” was all Napoleon remarked.
“I hope you will not think ill of me, August Sir,” Continetti pleaded his case with an obsequious smile, “in importuning for this particular instance of humanitarian intervention in my country of origin?”
“Of course not, Mr. Continetti. Such is understandable, as all of us are products of our pasts. And a good cause is still a good cause no matter the reason pursued,” Napoleon allayed the man’s fears.
Though Solo was well aware any such supposed fears on the part of Zamir Continetti were most definitely faked.
“We’ve looked into the Fëmijët e Engjëjve Orphanage in Shkodër as you suggested, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly confirmed less than a week later during a communicator session with his agent. “It’s a hotbed of Albanian insurrectionist activity, often acting as a way-station for the movement of rebel forces.”
“And the Soviets haven’t just shut the place down?” Napoleon questioned in astonishment.
“It seems they may be hoping to use it as a trap to capture the elusive Një nga Hijet. Of course that is only educated surmise on my part, as rather frustratingly none of my sources will speak even in the closest confidence about the place or the man in question.”
“So I must assume the Soviet government considers the whole matter something of an embarrassment?”
“Undoubtedly, Mr. Solo.”
“I’m still having trouble fitting this all together, sir. I mean what good does it do Thrush to champion a rebel fight in Albania with a goal of that country achieving independent self-determination of future government?”
“Mergim Hajdari could be himself Thrush,” postulated the Continental Chief.
“Maybe, but honestly, sir, have you ever known Thrush to purposely put itself in a losing situation? They surely can’t expect a group of rebels, no matter how well armed, to stand up in the long run against the entirety of the Soviet armed forces.”
“That would seem a curiously optimistic expectation, agreed,” Waverly affirmed his operative’s conclusion.
“So why then bother with all this? What’s the end-goal?”
Both men ruminated in silence for a few moments before Waverly finally remarked, “Good heavens, they are playing both sides against the middle. Thrush is arranging the arms deal so they can whisper the details in Russian ears and arrange for Soviet capture of Mergim Hajdari.”
“The same thought occurs to me, sir,“ seconded Napoleon, “with Thrush placing the blame for the arms procurement squarely on the shoulders of the Nascosten royal family.”
“They must have a reason why they believe the Soviets will accept that scenario without issue.”
“It has to be the stepbrother angle, sir,” prompted Napoleon. “Mergim Hajdari has to have some familial connection with the Nascosten royal family.”
“Our research dead-ended there, Mr. Solo.”
“I believe our research might have taken the wrong approach there, Mr. Waverly.
“Explain.”
“A stepbrother, sir. Not a half-brother,” enumerated Solo pointedly.
“Through the former Grand Consort Ljena,” the Number 1 in Section I finalized the mental computation of facts toward an inevitable conclusion.
“That seems to provide the answer.”
“There have never been any references or even rumors about Ljena having been married previous to her union with the Grand Prince, or to her having any children legitimate or otherwise. Still, it does make perfect sense, Mr. Solo,” Waverly concurred about accepting this speculation without verifiable facts. “Thrush would seem to be seeking in this instance to gain a bit of favorable leverage with the Soviet government.”
“I still don’t know the full extent of Donjeta’s involvement in any of this,” complained Napoleon unhappily.
“Well, find out, Mr. Solo! Before Mr. Continetti makes his planned trip to Moscow at the very latest!”
“Yes sir,” responded Napoleon with snap-to quickness. “Sir?” he then ventured a bit hesitantly.
“Yes, Mr. Solo?”
“Can I ask how negotiations are going with the Soviets with regard to their providing a candidate to serve as a Section II enforcement agent in the Command?”
Waverly didn’t need to be hit over the head. He knew at what this inquiry was meant to hint. Thrush wanted to use whatever favorable leverage they might gain with the Soviets, by instigating the circumstances of the ultimate capture of Mergim Hajdari, as a power-play against U.N.C.L.E. If they had their way, U.N.C.L.E. might as a result lose any tangible influence within the entire Communist Bloc.
“Get me the evidence, man! This scheme cannot be allowed to succeed! Not only for the sake of the Nascosten royal family, but for the sake of the world at large. Waverly, out.”
How one gathered evidence of any variety within a heavily secured palace, and when one was oneself a member of the royal family and thus had to submit to bodyguard protection nearly every day and night, was definitely a quandary. At least his new position provided Solo an excuse to enter the precincts of Donjeta’s private study. He made it a point to arrive early for any meeting there in the hopes of momentarily catching the room unoccupied. After four days of this strategy he was finally rewarded and was able to search unhindered for about fifteen minutes. Not much time, but luck was with him and he came across a personal letter Donjeta was in the process of composing.
Scanning the contents, he realized the missive, with its salutation of “My dearest Mergim”, was undoubtedly intended for Mergim Hajdari himself. Through her written words the Princess crowed about how she and their “ever-loyal and faithful Zamir" were arranging for the illegal arms shipment to the orphanage in Albania.
“Soon you will have the means to fight with more than the vigor of your convictions,” the memo went on to say. “I will put guns in the hands of you and your men so you may end in explosions of freedom the lives of those who make Albania subject to whims other than those of its own people.”
Napoleon sighed. There was now no question that Donjeta knew of the clandestine arrangement to provide arms to the Albanian insurgents. More than that Solo truly doubted she did know, however. He didn’t think her Thrush; he merely thought her naïve and thus easily manipulated by Continetti. Her letter to the man he assumed was her stepbrother wreaked of misplaced idealism. Napoleon was an idealist himself, but he gave his beliefs far more grounding in reality than apparently did the young Princess Adjuvant.
Unhappily Napoleon stole the piece of telltale correspondence and hoped it would not be missed, that Donjeta would just assume she had secretly stowed it someplace other than where she thought she had. It was a risk, but one he had no choice but to take.
His heart crowded with conflicting emotions, Napoleon considered how he should approach Abriana with news of her sister’s dangerous liaison with Hajdari and Continetti. As fate would have it, the method of this was taken out of his hands.
The members of the Nascosten royal family were all seated within one of the private parlors in Castello di Marmo Scuro, a place where they were free from the constant watch of bodyguards. Abriana, Donjeta and Napoleon were all involved in a game of three-handed Skat. Solo had found the revealing letter in Donjeta’s office earlier in the day and had not yet hit upon a strategy he favored to bring the subject up with Abriana. For the moment he kept silent, trying to focus all his concentration on the harmless hand of cards.
A sound off to right brought all three to their feet, with Solo drawing the gun Abriana permitted him, for his “personal ease of mind”, to wear holstered under his suit jacket on most occasions. From a hidden panel near one of the bookcases entered a man unknown to Napoleon, but apparently known to the other two occupants of the room as Donjeta immediately rushed into his arms.
“Mergim!” she greeted him with enthusiastic joy.
“Motra pak,” the man gave his own greeting in Albanian. “Che cosa è questo?” he then asked in Italian with his eye on Napoleon and that drawn gun. “Perché questo uomo permesso di portare una pistola in presenza delle mie sorelle? Sei una guardia del corpo nuova, signore? " he further demanded of Napoleon.
{Translation: Little sister}
{Translation: What is this?}
[Translation: Why is this man allowed to carry a handgun in the presence of my sisters? Are you a new bodyguard, sir?}
“He is my husband, Mergim,” Abriana answered simply in English as she moved forward and gave Mergim a brief kiss on the cheek, “and I permit him to carry the gun in my presence.”
“Ah, the new Grand Consort,” Mergim now acknowledged in English as well. “I of course heard of your marriage, Abriana. He is an American, yes?”
“Yes,” Napoleon answered for himself as he reluctantly returned his weapon to its holster. “And I seem the only one in need of introductions here.”
“This is Mergim,” Abriana intervened before Donjeta could say anything. “He is… a relative,” she kept things vague.
“Black sheep of the family?” provoked Napoleon.
“Not in the least!” countered Donjeta hotly.
“Donjeta,” warned Abriana with all the surety of her own position as both older sibling and in order of official precedence. “I will explain everything to my husband in private. If you will excuse us.”
With that Abriana grasped Napoleon’s arm, and led him from the room where Donjeta and Mergim immediately went into a happy course of catching up.
Once within the shared sitting room of their adjoining chambers, Solo put the blunt question to Abriana. “Who is that man?”
Abriana took a deep breath. “My and Donjeta’s stepbrother.”
“How? I mean how is he related?
“He is the son of my stepmother, the late Grand Consort Ljena.”
Thus was Napoleon’s previous supposition confirmed.
“A secret son, I take it.”
“Yes,” admitted Abriana. “I have to tell you another story, Napoleon. But this one doesn’t have any sort of fairytale ending.”
“Tell me,” prompted Solo.
“Ljena was, as you know, one of the insurgents in Albania. That was how my father first met her. I’ve already told you how they were captured and subsequently separated by circumstances. My grandfather kept his promise to my father to get her released from detention by the Ottoman government of the time. But Ljena had not an easy time in prison and thus became even more determined against Ottoman rule in her home country.”
“Causing her to abandon her old religion, so that all ties she might be seen to have to such rule were removed,” interjected Napoleon with a small nod.
“Yes,” Abriana said with a nod of her own. “Despite the supposed achievement of independence in 1912, the Albanians were treated to constant encroachment within their borders by other governments, both in the form of military incursions and political maneuverings. Ljena, therefore, remained as part of a revolutionary fringe seeking full self-determination of Albania.
“Of that time in her life, I must be honest and say I know little,” went on the deceased woman’s stepdaughter. “But apparently she strove for her goals in any way possible and kept purposely in the shadows, gaining something of a reputation among the revolutionaries. Sometime around 1923, we have never been sure of the exact timeframe, she developed a romantic relationship with democratic idealist Avni Rustemi, the man who had killed Essad Pasha Toptani in Paris. That relationship, in the insecure political environment of Albania at the time, was never spoken of by any. When Rustemi was assassinated on June 10, 1924, Ljena went into even deeper hiding. It was during this period that Mergim was born. She gave him to others to raise, never wanting it known that Rustemi had a son as it might put the boy in danger.
“At the time of her marriage, Ljena told my father all about Mergim and it was agreed between them to keep everything regarding the then adolescent boy completely under wraps. The man who insured the security of this information was my father’s friend Zamir Continetti. Neither I nor Donjeta knew anything about Mergim until Ljena’s death. Then our father revealed this secret to us. The idea of having as a relation the son of a man many considered a democratic hero was wildly appealing to Donjeta. She sought out a means to communicate with him, and that means again wound up being Zamir Continetti. She began corresponding with Mergim on a regular basis, thrilled to find him as much a fighter for full Albanian self-determination as his mother and father had been before him.
“Neither she nor I ever met Mergim, however, until the death of my father. He came in secret to pay his respects and later made himself known to us. His identity was confirmed by Continetti though the Albanian contacts he maintains in the insurgent movement. Subsequently I made Tomas Grecco privy to the existence of Mergim, letting both Donjeta and her Accesso all’Orecchio know of my decision in that regard.
“That’s as much of the story as there is to tell, Napoleon. Mergim doesn’t flaunt in any public way his connection to us, and his coming here today is thus very much a surprise to me.”
“Do you think his coming as much of a surprise to Donjeta? Or to her Accesso all’Orecchio?” Solo wanted to know.
Abriana stared at him in some confusion. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Napoleon took a deep breath. The time for subterfuge was now over. Yet, as with Clara, he deeply regretted any hurt he must now inflict.
“Abriana, do you know of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement?”
“Vaguely. I know it is a sort of international peace-keeping organization which opposes no particular government, but rather the world-terrorizing schemes instigated by a mixed group of power-seeking individuals.”
“I am an agent for that organization,” Napoleon revealed as he set his eyes directly on hers.
“What?” came her bewildered question.
“There were…” he made an attempt to condense everything she needed to know into a cohesive but limited whole, “…suspicions regarding a plot to make use of the Nascosten royal family in a venture to… well, upset the global applecart as it were.”
“What sort of use?” she asked anxiously.
“A covert provision of illegal arms to the Albanian insurgency, in which Mergim is heavily involved, via the National Nascosten Benevolence.”
“You mean Donjeta…”
“I think Donjeta was manipulated by Continetti. But she does know about that illegal arms deal, Abriana. I have proof of that.”
Abriana shook her head in stunned disbelief. “I know she has a tendency to see things in rather a kind of tunnel vision, but…”
“Abriana, that’s truly only part of the equation. You see, Continetti is one of that mixed group of power-seeking individuals. And it’s highly unlikely his real concern is about providing arms for revolutionaries in his former country. Perhaps that would be understandable, if still a form of betrayal to you and your family. What he really wants is for that group of his to gain perhaps favorable regard with the Soviet government.”
“How would providing arms to the Albanian insurgents accomplish that?”
“The Soviets want Mergim. He is a declared enemy of the state. But they have never been able to apprehend him and are rather humiliated about that inability. I believe Continetti is setting up Mergim to be captured as a result of this arms deal. He is going to betray him, and Donjeta as well.”
Abriana stared at him, trying to come to terms with everything he had told her.
“We have to warn them, don’t we?” she queried uneasily.
“Yes, but it has to be done discreetly. We don’t want to put Continetti on his guard.”
“I’ll have them brought here, to our private sitting room, and we’ll speak to them together.”
“That we will, but we need an inconspicuous messenger.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Abriana with a furrowing of her brow.
“Beppe, I’ll send Beppe,” decided Napoleon.
“Yes,” Abriana approved his selection. “Beppe would be the best choice. But Napoleon, during this meeting, I can’t allow you to wear your sidearm.”
“Abriana—“
“Please, Napoleon,” interjected Abriana with a pleading note in her voice and an equally pleading look in her eyes. “I don’t want Donjeta or even Mergim to think I mean to take any punitive action toward either of them. Not at this point. Not when they are so caught in a web only partially of their own making.”
Napoleon reluctantly nodded his acceptance of her request and then summoned Beppe via an accessible bell rope in the room.
“Bring the Princess Adjuvant and the man accompanying her in the south private parlor here into the presence of Her Gracious Highness,” Napoleon instructed the servant. Then he removed the Walther from the holster under his suit coat and handed it off to Beppe. “And put this away safely for me,” he additionally charged.
“August Sir,” Beppe gave the customary slight bow and left to do what had been asked of him.
Meanwhile in the office of Zamir Continetti an urgent phone call was being received.
“Are you a fool to attempt contact with me in this way, Milot?” Zamir, in Albanian, chastised the man on the other end of the connection.
“I had no choice, Zamir, as other channels might prove too slow for this news,” Milot continued the conversation in the same tongue. “We might have to change the drop point for the arms shipment. There have been too many people snooping about.”
“Stop being paranoid. It is likely just the usual Soviet surveillance.”
“This wasn’t the Soviets. Their methods aren’t quite so… polished.
“What are your particular suspicions then?” asked Continetti rather irritably. He was certain the man was overreacting, a typical occurrence with these dedicated revolutionary types.
“I haven’t a clue, Zamir! They were good. I couldn’t garner any traceable hint as to who they might be. But that they were there and making inquiries: that I do know.”
“Milot, let me assure you,” Continetti began a spiel aimed at putting the man’s mind at rest. And then he stopped short. Polished? Making inquiries and yet not traceable as to where those inquiries might be coming from? Or where the information was being dispatched to?
Then the memory of those previous mental red flags he had so nonchalantly ignored waved like a matador's cape within his brain. Napoleon Solo and his abstract vision of right. Napoleon Solo and that requested change to the marriage vows. Napoleon Solo asking about vetting the orphanage through his own sources. “U.N.C.L.E.!” exclaimed Continetti in frustration.
Central was getting lax! They hadn’t given him any information about Napoleon Solo. They apparently didn’t even know of the man. And now Continetti was all but positive Solo was a field operative of U.N.C.L.E.
“What’s that you say, Zamir?”
“Never mind. I’ll handle everything from here.”
“Wait, Zamir!” Milot caught the man’s attention before he could hang up. “You should know that Mergim slipped out by boat across the Adriatic sometime this morning. I’m sure his intent is to speak with you there in Diamant-Grezzo and personally let you know about all I’ve just told you.”
“Why did you let him go?” demanded the highly aggravated Continetti.
“You know Mergim. Who can stop him when he makes up his mind?”
“That arrogant, irrational clod! He’ll ruin everything!”
“Zamir!” exclaimed a shocked Milot. “Mergim is the main reason any of us here in Albania are willing to take the risks we do. We have much to lose and only his courage and determination rouses us—”
“Yes, yes,” Continetti cut off the other man’s speech in praise of Një nga Hijet. “I’ll handle everything from here as I said.” And with that he slammed down the receiver of the phone.
Mergim running loose in Nascoste and the Grand Princess married to an U.N.C.L.E. plant! Things were crumbling about his ears!
Once upon a time Zamir Continetti had been as much of a revolutionary zealot as now was Mergim Hajdari. He had, however, witnessed too near at hand politics being used in personal sprees by unconscionable men. Unconscionable men that average citizens then followed like lemmings, content to let others decide their fate. That had left him with an abhorrence of visionary yearnings spouted by people who in the end would follow whatever leader stood at the ready with pretty words and empty promises on his lips. Thus why pretend it could ever be otherwise? Why not simply seek personal power to begin with? Embittered and hardened, with his ideals crushed completely under the tread of heavy boots, Continetti had been the perfect recruit for Thrush. And he had served them well, and wasn’t about to be tossed in the trash heap by them anymore than by anyone else. He deserved his time of triumph, and he would have it!
First though he needed to be rid of the unexpected obstacle posed by Mr. Napoleon Solo.
Zamir stood and opened a secreted wall panel to reveal a personal safe. He dialed in the combination and unlocked the small vault, subsequently removing from its interior a semiautomatic handgun.
The meeting of Abriana and Napoleon with Donjeta and Mergim was not going well. The latter two simply refused to believe in Continetti’s perfidy.
“Zamir will not betray me!” insisted Donjeta. “And certainly he would not betray Mergim! His heart has always been with the cause of Albanian self-determination!”
“I don’t know about his heart, but his actions are bound to Thrush,” Napoleon countered his sister-in-law.
“Thrush, thrush, thrush!” spat out Mergim. “And why should we be concerned with the curious nesting habits of little birds?”
“Because those 'curious nesting habits' can destroy everything you believe in, everything you fight for,” retorted Napoleon. “You don’t seem to understand the scope of any of this!”
“Of course not, Mr. Solo,” came an unexpected voice. Everyone turned to the source, Zamir Continetti, who had apparently made his way in through another of the secret wall panels similar to that in the south parlor. “He’s a zealot and zealots never see beyond the length of their own noses.”
“What right have you to make such a clandestine entrance into my private chambers?” Abriana put up a bravely affronted stance, ignoring the wild beat of terror in her own heart as she saw the gun clutched in Continetti’s firm grip.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Gracious Highness,” Continetti smugly pretended an apology. “I know these secret passages were ordered sealed many years ago, but sometimes a bit of bribery to construction managers does indeed reveal loopholes in such orders. I was hoping, however, to find Mr. Solo alone. Isn’t this the usual timing of your daily reviews of upcoming edicts with the Minister of Internal Affairs?” Continetti clucked his tongue. “Missing governmental meetings to chat with family. Wherever is your sense of duty, Gracious Highness?”
“Certainly not in the same stinkhole where you’ve flushed yours,” Abriana flung back at him fiercely. Solo gently took one of his wife’s hands in his, seeking to silently counsel caution since it was Continetti with the advantage of a cocked gun.
“Put that gun away, Zamir,” Mergim commanded in the tone of one who expected to be obeyed.
Continetti let out a small laugh. “You do not cow me, oh Një nga Hijet. Nor do I stumble at your feet like the cattle of your insurgent herd.”
To say Mergim was shocked was putting it but mildly. The man’s expression was positively stunned.
“Zamir, there are bodyguards outside this room,” a definitely incensed Princess Adjuvant reminded her Accesso all’Orecchio.
“No, there aren’t. I made sure of it,” Zamir informed her in turn. “Haven’t you yourself, Highness, often commented on my notable efficiency?”
“So what do you intend to do, Continetti?” queried Solo brusquely. “Shoot the entire royal family of Nascoste?”
“Such a sad necessity, but you see there was this Albanian rebel who claimed familial ties to the royals and who, in a demonstration of his extremist principles, killed them all before turning the gun on himself.”
“You’ll never get away with that,” the Grand Princess denied the fabricated solution to his current dilemma.
“I’m more than willing to try,” challenged Continetti in a stone-cold voice.
In an instant Napoleon lunged toward Continetti, intending to knock him off-balance even if he had to take a bullet for it. Everything became confusion. Abriana screamed as the gun in Continetti’s hand, angled down by Solo’s bodily hit, glanced a bullet off Napoleon’s thigh, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. Despite his injury, Solo continued to struggle with Continetti on the floor for possession of the weapon. Continetti raised his hand wildly in the air, impulsively squeezing the trigger of the gun once more, the muzzle pointed in the direction of a charging Mergim. Donjeta tackled her stepbrother to clear him from the path of the shot and herself took a glancing blow across the abdomen for her effort. Napoleon, now on his back with the huge-framed Continetti on top of him pinning him to the floor, managed to knock the semiautomatic from his assailant’s hand. The report of a third shot dropped Continetti heavily onto Napoleon’s body, the traitorous minister hit squarely in the upper back and definitely quite dead.
Abriana placed a trembling hand across her mouth as she looked across the room where stood the valet Beppe with Solo’s Walther in hand, the gun muzzle still hotly smoking.
“He demeaned the honor of the royal family of Nascoste,” pronounced Beppe in a tight voice.
Rolling the substantial body of Continetti off his own, Solo managed to get to Beppe and calmly take the gun from the dazed manservant’s hand before his injured leg gave way and a stab of excruciating pain tossed him over the far edge of consciousness.
Napoleon awoke to the feel of heavy numbness in his left leg and gentle fingers carding through his hair. At the realization he was awake, Abriana stopped the soothing motion of those fingers almost in a recoil, as if she had been caught doing something she no longer had a right to do.
“You’re awake at last,” she remarked rather inanely.
“At last?” questioned Napoleon in a somewhat hoarsened voice.
“The doctors gave you injections to keep you unconscious while they sutured and wrapped your leg. And then afterwards so you wouldn’t move about too much, keeping you asleep for two days. You had everyone really worried, Napoleon. The bullet you took to the left leg lightly glanced your femoral artery. Luckily the nick was small and there was no associated nerve damage. Emergency meds got a tourniquet on the leg quickly to stop the bleeding, and the vascular surgery proved an unqualified success. Still, nobody could believe you actually limped over to Beppe on that leg.”
“That was pure adrenaline,” admitted Solo.
Abriana nodded. “In any case the doctors say it will heal completely.”
“What about Donjeta?”
“She’ll make it. Though the doctors predict, that due to some damage to the uterine wall, she’ll never be able to bear children.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I suppose it’s fortunate in a way.”
“Fortunate?” queried Napoleon with a raised eyebrow.
“As now any future heirs of Nascoste will have to come from my direct line,” Abriana expounded, “it provides the perfect exit for you, from our marriage.”
“Oh,” was all Solo found himself comfortable enough to remark.
Abriana took a little huff of breath and then sat down in a nearby chair. “Mr. Davies of the American Embassy put me in direct touch with your Mr. Waverly in the New York headquarters of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” she stated straight to the point. “He was very kind and explained everything to me. He was also extremely helpful with Mergim, arranging for him to get a new identity and a new life far away from both Albania and Nascoste.
“And he specifically wanted me to tell you that the Soviets have agreed to provide a candidate for the first session of U.N.C.L.E. training school in the new year.”
“I suppose then I did a good job,” Napoleon decided with a noticeable glumness in his tone.
Abriana’s lips curled in an ironic smile. “I suppose you did.”
Biting her lower lip in consternation for a moment, Abriana finally continued, “Tomas and others of my ministers have advised that my coronation take place as planned eight days from now. I’m not sure how I feel about that myself, but I have acquiesced to their counsel. The doctors tell me that you likely will be able to attend the ceremony in a wheelchair, if you so desire.”
“I so desire, Abriana; I honestly do,” spoke Napoleon in a saddened but sincere manner.
“Then it will be so,” she declared in the secure tone of royal prerogative. “Rest well, Napoleon.”
She rose to take her leave, hesitating for a long moment, as if unsure about something. Then she seemed to make an internal decision and walked up once more close beside his hospital bed. Leaning over him, she kissed him softly on the forehead.
Eight days later Abriana Pranvera Celestina was crowned Grand Princess of Nascoste with all due pomp and circumstance. Seated in a wheelchair tucked in the royal alcove of the Cathedral of the Seven Holy Martyrs in Diamant-Grezzo on that celebratory day, Grand Consort Napoleon Solo watched through the unexplainable tears clouding his vision.
Two Weeks Later
He entered her private study, bowing wordlessly from the waist in acknowledgement of her presence. From where she calmly stood behind her desk, she gazed across the full expanse of the room at him. Her polished veneer of poise betrayed nothing of any internal disquiet. Yet could Napoleon sense her intense emotional hurt almost as a blanket of fog that obscured their full images one from the other.
“I have read the contents of the declaration prepared to announce the dissolution of our marriage to the public,” Abriana at last broke the long silence that stretched between them. “The manner of it meets well with my approval. It is heartbreakingly touching, speaking as it does of your ‘gentle ending of the fairytale’ in order to permit me to get on with ‘the inescapable realities’ of my position as ruler of this nation. There will not be a dry eye amongst any of the citizenry when it is broadcast.”
“Thank you for allowing me to appear in this as such a noble character,” Napoleon sincerely expressed his gratitude.
“How could I make you appear as anything less than what you are?”
“It would be understandable were you to resent my role in all this.”
“I do not now nor will I ever resent anything about your role in my life, Napoleon, despite its transience,” she assured him, her tone now more personal, almost unbearably intimate.
Napoleon didn’t know what to say. Even in this, she was as gracious as her prescribed form of ceremonial address proclaimed.
“But there is another declaration, the contents of which I wish you to read,” she requested simply, “as it will be entirely your choice whether it is ever made public or not.”
She lifted a paper from the desktop and extended it toward him. Still nursing a slight limp, he walked to the front of the wooden table elaborately carved with the national Nascosten coat-of-arms, noting to himself how it seemed to serve now as more than simply a physical barrier between them. After accepting the proffered document from her hand, he scanned it thoroughly. Finally he raised astonished eyes to hers.
“If I decree this as truth, it can be so,” came her frank statement.
The document in question proclaimed a lineage had been uncovered on the LaCoursiere side of Napoleon’s maternal heritage linking him to old French nobility. He knew exactly the purpose of that invented ancestry: the morganatic marriage from which he would, with globally perceived altruistic intent, free his monarchical wife could then be declared fully valid with regard to the royal inheritance edicts of Nascoste. Swept away in that scenario would be any presumed “selfish impediment” to the continuance of the union, presenting the possibility of his remaining at the lady’s side as a legally suitable spouse. To say Napoleon was absolutely flabbergasted that the Grand Princess would risk this legislative lie for him was describing his reaction but mildly indeed.
“It would be no more than another fairytale,” he forwarded with an aching tenderness in his voice. “And a very unwise one at that.”
“Because by the moral and legal standards of the world your birth is in principle illegitimate?” she straightforwardly pursued his unspoken reservation.
Napoleon blinked. He was completely shocked and somewhat shamed that she had discovered the family secret so carefully buried for so many years by his two powerful grandfathers.
“You needn’t fret, Napoleon. Your grandfathers initially, and no doubt U.N.C.L.E. subsequently, did a very good job of hiding that inconsequential technicality. My ministers and investigators found nothing at all to even hint at such. It was Mr. Waverly himself who informed me of it, when I spoke to him in privacy about this – shall we say – enhanced genealogical background I had designed for you. He quite succinctly made the point that, even were you personally inclined to accept my little slight-of-legal-hand, your inherent decency of nature would not permit you to do so because of the particular circumstances regarding your direct parental history.”
Napoleon supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Mr. Waverly not only knew this hush-hush reality, but also that the Old Man understood so well the underlying personality of his operative. Yet then again Napoleon hadn’t until recently realized how very tightly bound to U.N.C.L.E. every aspect of his life had become.
Abriana’s eyes held Napoleon’s once more. “In any case, your deceptively gentlemanly superior needn’t have hedged his bets by revealing your private humiliation to me. I can see by the distressing wretchedness of your expression that you would never be inclined to accept my heartfelt offer.”
“Gracious Highness,” began the genuinely distraught Napoleon. “Abriana,” he stumbled out more softly.
“So the fairytale does indeed end here,” Abriana forestalled any self-conscious words on his part. “U.N.C.L.E. whisked you into my life and now will whisk you away. And all that will remain of our engineered encounter are fond memories and questions that must forever go unanswered.”
“Ask whatever questions you will of me, and I will honestly answer,” he wholeheartedly pledged her.
She smiled sadly.
“Do I still love you, Napoleon?” she queried unexpectedly.
“I would imagine not,” answered Napoleon with a very sad smile of his own.
“Did you ever love me, Napoleon?” she voiced her final question.
“Not as you would have had me do.”
“Therein lies the essence of the matter: for you loved me only as you love any innocent of this world in need of saving.”
“I still love you in that way,” he assured her.
“And that must suffice me because there is no more to be had.”
She formally put out her hand to him, reaching easily across the solidness of the desk that divided them in more ways than one. Napoleon again bowed from the waist as he took her hand in his and pressed his lips lightly against her fingers, managing with kindly consideration of her feelings to match his formality of gesture to her own.
“Your Gracious Highness,” he appropriately addressed her in final farewell. And then he made his way out of her private study and out of her private life.
“Yet can I take cold comfort in the knowing,” Abriana thought resignedly after his exit, “that U.N.C.L.E. will always claim more of him than any woman could ever hope to possess.”
December 1957
New York City
It had taken Napoleon several months of cajoling to get Clara to forgive him his U.N.C.L.E.-instigated marriage to the Grand Princess of Nascoste. Yet the pair was now beyond all that stressful unease, more than two years beyond.
Everyday Napoleon thanked his lucky stars that Clara had eventually come around. What finally had convinced her to “bestow absolution” had been his assurances there could be no more such assignments. Thrush now had a dossier on him, and thus any undercover operation in which he was involved would of necessity have to be less in the public view. And as well this first significant mission of his as a Section II agent had truly been a unique case.
“It was a remarkably singular fall of the dice, Clara,” he had explained. “My being virtually unknown to Thrush. My particular upbringing that led to a fortuitous childhood encounter with the Grand Princess. Abriana’s secret need for some touchstone back to the innocence of her own childhood at a particular point in her life when adult responsibilities of the most restrictive variety were seemingly about to overwhelm her. The need for U.N.C.L.E. to have a presence inside the Nascosten royal family circle in order to figure out what exact manipulations Thrush intended on making via its influence on the Princess Adjuvant, an influence that could pay a higher dividend for them if Donjeta was the recognized heir apparent. Truly, Clara, it’s a set of circumstances that had absolutely astronomical odds of ever coming together at all. Let alone there ever being by the chaotic rules of chance a recurrence of anything even remotely similar.”
She had accepted the truth of that and in the end they had “kissed and made up”. And now they were an engaged couple, if a surreptitious one due to the restrictions of Solo’s position in Section II. Tonight they were spending a quiet night together in Napoleon’s apartment, eating Chinese takeout from cardboard cartons, and cuddling on the sofa while they casually watched the evening news. It was holiday time and it seemed that the television reporters were joyously embracing human-interest stories over more depressing fare.
“It’s a truly celebratory Christmas season in Nascoste!” informed a broadly smiling broadcaster on the electronic box that was gradually becoming ubiquitous in every American household. “Today it was announced by the palace that Grand Princess Abriana, the reigning monarch of the small island nation, will wed in the summer of the coming year Lucca Barberini, an Italian citizen who can trace his ancestral roots back to the noble Colonna family of Palestrina.”
As the on-air reporter chattily relayed his story, black-and-white images of the Nascosten Grand Princess and her new fiancé flickered across the screen. Clara stiffened and sat up straighter, perceptibly increasing the distance between Napoleon’s body and her own. To Solo it seemed the temperature of his usually comfortable living room dropped by several very discernible degrees.
“She looks happy,” Napoleon made an awkward verbal attempt to break the even more awkward silence.
“She merely looks pleased,” countered Clara in a rather clipped tone. “She looked happy with you though, positively blissful from what I recall of the press coverage.”
“She was a few years younger and a good deal less life experienced,” he found his words taking on as snappish an edge as Clara’s. “Thus fairytales still seemed plausible to her.”
Would Clara never truly get past this? He had married the princess as part of a mission assignment. He hadn’t loved her, at least not as a man should love the woman to whom he makes a lifetime commitment. His only true commitment in the union with Abriana had been to U.N.C.L.E.
Clara turned to face him, her manner strangely timid and her tear-glazed eyes appearing incredibly huge and thus almost childlike. “I hadn’t the courage to ask this when you initially came back from Nascoste,” she admitted hesitantly, “back to me. I’m not even sure I have that courage now. Yet the question keeps rattling around in my head like the remnants of a broken wedding-toast champagne flute. And I want them gone, those sharply hurtful crystalline shards; so I have to ask.”
Napoleon furrowed his brow in concern. She seemed suddenly so vulnerable, so defenseless. “Ask what, Clara?” he prompted gently.
“In your time with Abriana,” she began; then halted and bit her lower lip in consternation. “During all thos weeks when you were an adoring couple in the eyes of the world and even in her eyes…” She halted again and took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to put this. I just don’t have the right words. But… well, was it a real marriage, Napoleon?”
The emphasis she put on the word “real” revealed to Napoleon the crux of her question. He cleared his suddenly painfully dry throat.
“What do you want me to say, Clara? How would you have me answer?”
“You don’t have to say anything else,” Clara assured him in a very quiet and rather strained voice. “You’ve already given me the answer.”
“And I know it’s not the one you wanted to hear,” he conceded as he ran a frustrated hand though his dark hair, dislodging the controlled placement of his forelock. “But I’m no saint, Clara. I don’t have the internal fortitude to stoically resist temptation placed so willingly in my direct purview.”
“Unless it is at the insistence of Mr. Waverly and suits the needs of U.N.C.L.E.,” batted back Clara with a careless certainty that caught Napoleon completely off-guard.
Napoleon gaped. “What? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind, Napoleon,” Clara backed off readily. “None of it really matters,” she deceived herself just as readily as she snuggled her body again close to his.
She just couldn’t summon the stomach for this fight. It was Christmas after all, and she desperately wanted something of her own fairytale. She loved this man beside her so very much, and she simply didn’t want to believe that might not in the end prove enough.
A Final Word from the Author: Once upon a time, when MFU was still but a glint in the eye of Norman Felton, a background was created for Napoleon Solo that included a marriage at a young age, his wife dying less than a year into the union. Like many initial thoughts, this one was not pursued in the series. I would venture to say in the end it purposely wasn’t used because widowers in the 1960s were viewed as rather stable fellows and definitely not as sexy womanizing spy-types.
In any case, Clara Richards – the one-time great love of NS – seemingly replaced the persona of the dead wife within the framework of the TV show. It was unquestionably more romantic for Napoleon to have fully loved and ultimately lost because of his work in U.N.C.L.E. rather than because of a traffic accident. Who can forget the poignancy of the episode THE TERBUF AFFAIR that highlighted the past and present relationship between NS and Clara?
Now some fanfic writers embrace the dead wife idea and certainly more creative power to them. Yet for me Clara is Napoleon’s definitive love: the one he always regretted losing, though it was just not in him to abandon his dedication to U.N.C.L.E. in order to keep her.
Yet when the morganatic marriage concept came up as related to “left-handedness” being explained in a socio-cultural way, the thought rocketed into my head to utilize that as a “wicked twist” scenario for the HODOWE challenge. A twist that did indeed have NS marrying at a young age (he is only 22 in this story), but at U.N.C.L.E.’s behest. To me this invokes the first true test of Solo’s unwavering commitment to U.N.C.L.E. And thus this particular scenario in my opinion has more emotional pith than any commonplace tale of teenage passion and tragic happenstance.
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