It was a crisp fall day that found Napoleon Solo taking a stroll in Central Park; he decided to have his lunch outside, getting some fresh air. A couple of hot dogs from a dirty water dog vendor did the trick, and as he casually sat on a park bench, his legs crossed while enjoying his food; he admired the brilliant red, yellow and oranges of the changing foliage.
Inevitably his gaze was drawn to the women who strolled past him. Their coats covering them up for the most part, yet still there were plenty of long lovely legs to admire.
Somehow, in spite of the spectacular view, his thoughts segued to his partner.
Illya was on assignment in Mexico, and Napoleon could just imagine all the lovely señoritas the man was ignoring. That reminded Solo to have another long talk with his Russian friend about paying closer attention to the fairer sex.
He found himself missing his partners presence, though not his snide comments about the American's eating habits when it came to hot dogs, especially with onions...or girl watching for that matter.
A voice called the agent from his daydreaming…
"Well if it isn't Napoleon Solo. I see your gastronomic tastes haven't improved," there was a tinge of sarcasm to the woman's voice.
"Hello Sylvia...slumming, dear? I didn't think parks were your thing? " He kept his voice void of any emotion; his riposte not missing a beat to her insulting observation.
Her name was Sylvia Van de Veer, a New York Socialite he'd had the displeasure of dating for a while in his younger days. As always she was impeccably dressed, an apricot colored silk scarf draped around her throat and her designer hat strategically dipped below one eye as she looked down at him, both literally and figuratively.
"Slumming Napoleon, whatever do you mean?"
"That's true. I wouldn't think you'd even know the meaning of such a thing...though I guess shopping at Van Cleef and Arpels instead of Cartier would be slumming to you."
"Pithy, always pithy Napoleon. I see you haven't changed at all."
"And from your shopping bags, I see you haven't either." They were dangling from her bejeweled arm and were from one of the most exclusive 5th Avenue couturiers. Her fingers were bedecked with several gaudy diamond and platinum rings.
"And what's wrong with having only the best? I can afford it, unlike you."
"Sharp tongued as ever my dear," he rose, offering her his arm, as he was still a gentleman.
"I notice your chauffeur isn't here, and you walking by yourself in the park. Tsk, tsk. A woman alone, wearing those gems and jewels needs to be more careful. Where are you going? I'll walk with you to see you get there safely."
"Oh how gallant, still the white knight as always. I'm staying across the street at the Plaza. It was too much to go home to the Hamptons last night. We'd flown the lear jet up to Nova Scotia to see a total eclipse of the sun, but it turned out to be dreadfully boring event, however, the party afterwards wasn't. Everyone who is anyone was there. We're all heading up to Saratoga this afternoon as my horse is running there…I'd invite you along, but they're just not your circle of friends as you so often reminded me.
Napoleon didn't hesitate responding to the slight...
"Still the jetsetter I see, always where you should be all the time... and if its people who stare in the mirror at themselves while they gavotte though a crowd of socially elite snobs are where it's at; no not my circle."
"For someone who was brought up in the Hamptons, you were truly a disappointment Napoleon, but then the Solo name was really never really in the same class as the rest of us. You'll just never be one of the beautiful people will you? Still in our day, we did make such a pretty pair, didn't we?"
"That was until you tossed me away...or should I say, gave me away, though in hindsight, you did me a favor. I must say Sylvia, you're still as coy and discreet with your words as ever."
She laughed at his remark, throwing back her head while feigning aloof enjoyment.
"So what is it you do now for a living Napoleon dear?" She looked him up and down, noting the very expensive designer suit he was wearing.
He couldn't resist and whispered to her, "I'm a spy."
It wasn't a surprise to him when Sylvia accepted it without question, even though it was the truth...
"Nooo, an underworld spy, like James Bond? How delicious! You must come to lunch with me and my friends and tell us your harrowing tales. They'll just adore it!"
Just then they reached the entrance to the Plaza Hotel, and Napoleon delicately lifted her hand from his arm.
"Sorry Sylvia, that just wouldn't be possible."
"Oh don't be embarrassed Napoleon, just because you're not in the same social class as them; they'd still be interested in your tales of intrigue. How exciting! How novel and I'll be the talk of all my friends, imagine...me bringing a real spy into their midst."
"Yes, exciting and very dangerous, but you see Sylvia if I tell you, then I'd have to kill you. Some secrets can't be shared you know, and if you tell anyone I'm a spy...I'll be back." He held open his suit jacket, wickedly flashing her his gun nestled in its holster.
He leaned in, giving her a peck on the cheek, and turning, he left Sylvia Van de Veer standing there speechless with her mouth hanging open.
"You should close that dear; a fly could get in there," Napoleon crinkled his nose as he quipped, giving her a little farewell salute.
He sauntered down the sidewalk while trying not to laugh. It wasn't often he'd get to zing it to someone who really deserved it...unless they were T.H.R.U.S.H. and they, being part of his job, somehow just didn't really count.
This had been personal and the unexpected run-in had given him a very satisfied feeling that was long overdue.
Napoleon Solo happily whistled the theme from 'Goldfinger' as he decided to walk back to headquarters instead of hailing a cab.