You might say that I am the face of the UNCLE. I know what you are thinking – why would a secret organization need a face? Even organizations like the FBI or CIA draw a lot of attention. It can't be helped; our people interact with the surrounding community on a daily basis. Or in some cases, a nightly basis.
Take for example our CEA. Keeping up with his contact list is a job unto itself, but I digress for the moment.
Even back in grade school, I was great at putting the spin on things. I liked to take events and manipulate them. I could take the winning touchdown from the big football game and make it sound like the biggest mistake in our school's history. Likewise, I could take the expulsion of the top ranking student, caught for plagiarism, and make it sound like the best news the school could have.
I didn't really think about it too much; it being second nature and all, but then I got into high school and my counselor suggested that I consider a career in advertising or public relations. Advertising was a bit too restrictive for me, but PR, it was there that my creative juices really started flowing.
College was a given, what with Mom and Dad being alumni of Durkam, one of New York's more exclusive colleges, but I have to admit it wasn't all that much. Sure the business courses were okay and the PR track wasn't bad, but by the time I'd gotten through my second semester, I'd maxed out on those classes and had to look forward to the fun and games of math and science. Not my idea of a good time, even drunk.
Now I know what you're going to say, why does a nice girl like me drink at all? You'd have to know my family for that answer. And I wasn't drinking a lot, just enough to get me through the crap of daily life.
My grades started to suffer as a result of it and crawling out of bed in the morning just didn't seem to be worth the effort of sitting and listening to some blowhard drone on for an hour about the importance of this proton or that equation. As far as I was concerned, it was all just crap.
The college didn't share my view. They gave me a warning, and then put me on academic probation. I didn't care. I'd gotten what I wanted out of school and everything else was just a burr under my saddle. Surprisingly enough, Mom and Dad sided with the school and when I got kicked out of school, I also found myself without a familial roof over my head.
No problem, I started looking for a job, but at that point I got the second big surprise of my pitifully short life. Employers didn't care if you knew everything there was to know about everything. They wanted results; they wanted good grades; they wanted to know that you finished what you started. Honestly, up to that point, the only thing I ever finished in my life was a bottle of whiskey. As the thought of perching myself on a barstool and soliciting booze for sexual favors didn't appeal, I started looking around for whatever I could get.
One night I was slinging hash at this little hole in the wall in lower Manhattan when this little old guy wandered in. He wasn't much to look at, but for some reason we ended up talking. By the end of the night, I'd poured out the whole ugly story of what it was like to be me.
He got up to leave, pressed a card, along with a ten dollar bill, into my hand and slipped quietly from my life. Or so I thought. The card was just an address. I had nothing to lose except for a job I hated, so I checked it out.
By the week's end, I was in a rehab program within the confines of UNCLE. It might not sound like much, but UNCLE saved my life and all it asked in return was that I protect its. Not in the physical sense, they still weren't allowing women into Section Two and Three when I joined, and even if they were, the thought of people shooting at me doesn't appeal. My job is to make UNCLE sound good, to put a spin on it. And spin it I do.
Most of my time is spent on the second floor. That's where all the administration and business offices are for the organization, no shooting ranges, no gyms or classrooms, just secretaries, typewriters, legal pads and lots of gray matter all churning about, keeping the machine running, making the money, making UNCLE continue to live and breathe.
Others have the grunt jobs; I pass them in the hallways and they never look sideways at me. I'm not one of them; likewise the executives walk by me as if I was invisible. That's okay because I know just a few words from me one way or the other could mean UNCLE coming out smelling like a rose or looking like the biggest waste of invested capital in the country. In short, I had my words to keep me warm. I didn't need anything else.
And now I go back to my former topic. No, not the alcoholism, three years, seven months and five days, thank you very much. No, I meant back to the clean up job behind our agents, especially behind a dark-haired, silver tongued devil known as Napoleon Solo.
Look for Napoleon and you'll find a trail of broken hearts. Some women, they know what they are getting into when they accept an invitation from Napoleon Solo; others aren't prepared for the consequences. I've heard all the stories: "Oh, he makes you feel so special. He's such a gentleman. Oh he's so good: a) at a restaurant, b) on the dance floor, c) in bed, d) all of the above." It wasn't my job to judge the man, but it was my job to clean up after him.
You see, Napoleon rarely dated any woman for very long; it was just the nature of the business. He couldn't afford to let anyone get too close. About the only person who was permitted that privilege was his partner, the Russian. It always seemed odd to me that he'd allow a man that honor, but not a member of the opposite sex. Or perhaps it was because with his partner, he didn't have to worry about letting the wrong word slip and compromising the mission.
God knows he compromised everything else. When a pretty woman was involved, Napoleon was the first man there, ready, willing, and oh, so able. Then when the smoke cleared, I was there to pick up the pieces.
Of course, you shouldn't get me wrong; my job was more than just following behind Solo and his lady friends. UNCLE had to interact with the public in a very personal way and I had to make sure everyone came out of each encounter with a clear understanding of what they could and couldn't talk about and why.
I was finishing up some paperwork on a case we had just wrapped up in France. THRUSH has developed this serum that supposedly promoted rapid regeneration from injuries, but all it did was accelerate the aging process.
The school teacher who had been our agents unwilling accomplice was pretty content to keep quiet in exchange for being allowed to keep the money and gifts that had been part of UNCLE's s deal with her. She'd gone back to her tiny Midwestern town as a queen, the bad guys were defeated and the case was closed - or so I thought.
"Gwen, my pet, I wondered if I could have a word." Suddenly, Napoleon Solo was sitting beside my desk, looking all spit and polish. It would be great if you cared; I didn't really. I knew Napoleon's kind, had had my fill of them during the few months I had to make my own way and I wasn't interested.
"Yes, Mr. Solo."
"I need your help." So that was it. Napoleon would do just about anything he could for help with his reports. Usually Kuryakin bore the brunt of his dislike for paperwork, but I guess he'd had his fill.
"I'm not a secretary, Mr. Solo." Just in case he didn't remember that.
"I am well aware of your standing, Gwen. I don't need a secretary; I need a wordsmith."
"A wordsmith?"
He smiled and made an open gesture with his hands. "I'm a competent agent, my sweet, but I'm lousy with words."
"I don't know about that; I've read some of your reports. Seems to me you do okay with a song and dance routine."
"When it doesn't matter, but when it does, I'm lost."
I sighed and shook my head. "I'm not in the business of helping Casanova seduce his victims. I'm sorry, Napoleon."
"You don't understand, Gwen. This is important, it's not just some girl. This time it really, really matters. Please?"
I knew this was trouble, I knew it was stupid and I knew I should run and hide from the merest suggestion, but I caught myself nodding slowly. What was the magic this man had over women? I, for one, was clueless.
So that's how I found myself sitting in a small restaurant not far from UNCLE HQ, sipping bitter coffee and nibbling at a blueberry muffin. I'd have much rather had French fries, but for some reason, the muffin seemed a better choice.
Fifteen minutes past our agreed-upon meeting time and I was about to head home when he slid into the seat across from me.
"Sorry I'm late; I had a hard time getting away tonight."
He made it sound like he'd had to sneak away from his wife; odd choice of words.
"So what can I do to help you, Mr. Solo?"
"There's someone I've… gotten to know recently and I'd like to deepen the relationship, but I'm not sure how."
"Just go up to her and tell her that."
"It's not that easy… it's more complicated."
"She's not married? I'm not helping you break up a happy home."
"Nothing like that. Married to the job, but that's about it."
"And you want a reenactment of Cyrano? You want me to help you craft beautifully worded poetry to capture her soul?"
"I just don't want to say something stupid and ruin this before it's even gotten started." He reached out and took my hand. His fingers were long and tapered and the nails flawlessly manicured. But his palms were scratchy with the calluses of his trade. "For the first time in my life, Gwen, I really, really need to pick the right words. I can't blow this."
"And getting the lady in the sack is that important to you?"
"That's just it. I'm not even interested in that, Gwen, at least not yet. First I need to know if there's any interest."
"Wait! You, the great Napoleon Solo, UNCLE's answer to Don Juan, and you have doubts?"
"Very serious doubts." He dropped his gaze to the table top and sighed. "Please?"
"Blonde, brunette or redhead?"
"Pardon?"
"This mysterious woman of yours. I need some stats if we're going to do this right."
"Blond, most of the time…" His mouth played at a smile.
"Co-worker? Eye color? Tall or short?" His smile faded and his eyes grew wary, as if he was afraid to give too much away. Whoever this girl was, she was a closely guarded secret.
I pried reluctant details from him and then started writing. By the time we'd finished, I had a sonnet worthy of Shakespeare. The part that caught me was the depth of the emotion in the words and yet the androgyny of the words he chose or chose not to let me use. All I know was that whoever the lucky lady was, she had Napoleon hook, line, and sinker.
So I sat back and waited. Like most big organizations, ours ran partially fueled by gossip. By ten each morning, I knew what color socks Waverly was wearing, what kind of tie Napoleon was sporting, whether Kuryakin was bucking the current fashion trend – again. However, on the love front, things were strangely quiet. I had expected to hear that Napoleon was coming out of the field early due to a decision to marry – yes, the bit of wordsmithing I did for him was that indicative.
He and his partner were playing it pretty close to the vest these days. They went on missions, succeeded, came back, and that was it. Occasionally, Napoleon would track one of the secretaries down, but not like before. Instead, he was all business now.
I suppose it was because the target of his affections, whoever she was, had either turned him down and broke his spirit. Or accepted him and he was keeping the whole thing extremely private. In either case, he never approached me again, not in that fashion. If we passed in the corridor, he'd just give me a little smile, touch his partner's elbow, and go along his way.
It was too bad really. It was the first time I'd actually failed at something I'd put a spin on. Then I was sitting in the canteen one day, watching Napoleon, sitting so close to his partner that their bodies were almost touching, grin at something Kuryakin was saying when a stray thought crossed my mind. Could it be possible? The great Napoleon Solo? Naw… not even possible…