Napoleon Solo wasn't one for funerals, and this one was the hardest one he'd have to attend thus far in his career in the world of espionage.
No one wanted to believe it when it happened. Mark Slate was supposed to live, he was supposed to make it to the age of forty and his retirement from the field.
The irony of it was that he was not brought down by T.H.R.U.S.H. or some enemy agent...no, the ever amicable Brit was struck down by a taxi in the middle of Trafalgar Square.
His injuries were serious enough but shouldn't have been fatal; instead his heart gave out on him and he went into cardiac arrest. It took too long to get him to hospital and he just couldn't be saved.
An autopsy performed revealed a heart defect that had somehow been missed by U.N.C.L.E. medical personnel. There hadn't been a history of heart problems in his family and it was assumed the chemicals he'd been injected with over the years may have done something to his heart. Though not having overt effects, the drugs must have contributed to his condition. Still there was no proof positive, the autopsy results were inconclusive as to that question.
For that reason Mark Slate's death was deemed an accident, the unforeseen consequences of a traumatic event It was fast, they said. He hadn't suffered, though that offered little consolation to Slate's partner, April Dancer.
She stood, stiff-lipped with reddened eyes beside Napoleon Solo; the senior agent slipping his hand around hers and giving it an encouraging squeeze.
To his other side, stood Mark's often ebullient sister Marie Suzette, who was uncharacteristically quiet. There were no remarks coming from her stating that if she'd been there, she could have saved him. That was very typical of the woman, as she was a bit of a Mary Sue, though in reality she was beyond gifted, and if she'd made the comment, it would not have been surprising.
Claims such as that were typical of Marie Suzette as she was a brilliant scientist and physician, and in all truth she probably could have rescued her brother from his fate. * Probably...
She clung to Solo's other arm for support, not saying a thing and simply wiped her sniffling nose with a hankie. There were no words, no braggadocio from her this day as her grief had silenced her.
"Oh Napoleon,"April whispered. "I could understand him going in the field, but not like this. It was so...so senseless, meaningless. Mark was willing to sacrifice his life for others day after day and this is his reward?"
"I know it doesn't make any sense sweetheart, but things happen for a reason," he tried comforting her.
Solo had delivered the eulogy in Alexander Waverly's stead as it was deemed too dangerous for the head of Section I to travel to Great Britain on such short notice for a funeral.
Basic security arrangements had been made by Harry Beldon, but when he discovered he was not to deliver the eulogy, he conveniently fell ill and was unable to attend the funeral.
That was fine with April, Illya, Napoleon and the other agents present, as Beldon's over the top demeanor and standard of dress were always an attention getter. Besides, he barely knew the agent. This wasn't supposed to be about him...it was about Mark Slate.
"I as so glad that ponce Beldon was put off by Napoleon. I have to say the eulogy he delivered was quite good," Mark felt a little puffed up about Solo's words.
"I too have been present for my own eulogy delivered by my partner," Illya couldn't resist giving the Brit a dig.."He definitely knows how to embellish and is quite the thespian."
"Embellish, what was embellished?"
"Shusssh, Mark. Keep your voice down,"Illya said. "Better still, we should end our discussion for now lest someone overhear us."
The sky was dark and overcast and looked like it was ready to open up in a downpour.
They watched as the cream colored casket was carried down the church steps, and carefully loaded into the hearse by the pallbearers.
"A cream colored casket? I would have expected something a bit more masculine," a man leaned over, whispering to Illya Kuryakin who stood at a safe distance from his partner and April, but most especially Mark's sister.*
"Sorry...Mark, but it was the best we could do at last minute, and besides it is not like you are in it." The Russian lowered his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose.
"I do believe your false moustache is slipping my friend."
"Oops, sorry guv," Slate quickly adjusted his disguise, pressing it against his upper lip. "Poor April. There's no way you could let her in on this."
"No it had to be believable."
"She's a good actress mate."
"We needed to be real. Trust me…" Kuryakin winked. "I will see you in New York."
The mourners piled into the wating cars, parked nearby to take them to the Slate family plot in Northen England for the internment.
Mark disappeared into the dissipating crowds, grabbing a taxi.
"Heathrow airport please," he told the driver, just as the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. "Lovely day for a funeral," Slate sarcastically thought to himself.
Once settled in the back seat of the black hackney, the agent peeled off is false moustache and removed his tweed cap; running his fingers through his hair. He had the gyst of what this was all about, but hoped the details would be clearer once he arrived in New York for further briefing