At a 16th century Renaissance style home outside of Amsterdam, the preparations for an impending nuptial of were rising to a near fevered pitch as the event loomed closer. The deep, resonating chime of a nearby church bell sounded; telling everyone the moment of departure had at last arrived. It was not a royal wedding but still, many royals would be in attendance.
Hans Ludwig Peter Rudolph Adalbrecht Leonhard Lippe-Biestervald, a very distant cousin of the Prince consort to Queen Juliana was getting married. Hans was of royal lineage, in spite of the Lippe- Biesterfelds having lost their Principality of Lippe long ago. It disappeared, and the revenue that had accompanied it, during d World War I...yet still they remained a well to do European family.
Illya Kuryakin stood beside the gleaming black limousine parked in front of the house, wearing a chauffeurs black hat and suit. His hands, crossed at rest in front of him, were sheathed in a pair of tight black leather gloves. His eyes, shaded by an over sized pair of dark aviator style sunglasses, scanned the area, looking for anyone or anything that looked out-of-place.
As the great arched wooden doors to the chateau opened slowly; Napoleon Solo stepped outside, dressed in a charcoal grey morning suit replete with an Ascot, waistcoat, striped trousers, tails and a grey top hat to complete his ensemble. Always the one for fashion, but even Solo looked uncomfortable as he tugged at his collar.
They'd been sent to guard the fiancé of Hans Biestervald, and given the fact the royal family of the Netherlands would be in attendance to the wedding; there was a sense of more than the usual tension attached to an assignment, but at the moment Napoleon and Illya were both a little bored. It wouldn't be until they arrived at the church for the ceremony that things would finally ramp up and they'd have to really be on their game.
So far it had been a week of endless shopping trips, gossip and tolerance by the U.N.C.L.E. agents, but between the two of them; Illya's patience was nearly at its end.
Solo preceded the exit of the fiancé, Marie Therese le Claire-St. Johns from the Chateau. A classy sounding name, for a not so classy dame as Napoleon pointed out to his partner after meeting the woman for the first time at what seemed as though it had been more than a week ago.
"I've met a lot of women in my day, but she has got to be one of the dizziest, low-class blondes I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few myself."
"Yes no doubt you have." Illya snickered." But seriously, what should you care if she is bright or not? She must have done something right to make Hans Biestevald want to marry her. We are here to do a job and I for one will be glad to see an end of it. What business of ours is it if this is a morganatic marriage?"
"I'm sure she must be spectacular in bed then, or maybe he is, if you get my drift?" Solo nudged with his elbow.
"Oh yes, no doubt that is the surefire answer to your dilemma. Why must you always reduce things to sex?"
He ignored Illya's retort. "And what may I ask is that morgan-thingy you mentioned?" Napoleon bit his lip, instantly regretting having asked the question, as he anticipated one of his partners long-winded explanations, some of which could be interesting, but still, Napoleon was not in the mood today and simply wanted the assignment to be over with.
"It is a marriage between people of unequal social rank, as you so deftly pointed out, Marie le Claire-St. Johns is definitely of a lower class than her future husband. Though it seems that such a distinction is fading now days, as there are few choices for someone of aristocratic birth, such as Hans, to find a spouse of equal status...the gene pool has become quite limited and a morganatic marriage does avoid the possible consequence of intermarriage with a blood relation. Case in point, with the royal families of England and Russia related to each through the offspring of Victoria intermarried, resulting in hemophilia and other health issues."
"Good Lord, you mean incest?"
Illya laughed, "No, not quite like that, it was the ancient Egyptians who practiced incest, wherein the Pharaoh and his Queen were brother and sister, but that my friend is not a European custom. There are many people of both royal and noble birth who are choosing to marry commoners, as it were, following the Lex Canuleia of ancient Rome. I believe it was passed as a law of the Roman Republic in the year 445 BC. It abolished a prohibition of marriage between patricians and plebeians, with children inheriting the father's social status and is also referred to in Latin as the Lex de conubio patrum et plebis."
"As I recall my Latin," Napoleon interjected proudly. "That translates to the law of the intermarriage of patricians and the plebeians." He hoped that was the end of the lecture, but his partner continued on, obviously enjoying himself.
"Precisely," Illya agreed. "Another term for this connubial joining is a left-handed marriage because in the wedding ceremony, wherein the groom traditionally holds his bride's right hand with his left hand instead of his right."
"Where do you come up with this stuff?" Napoleon was again amazed at his partner's mind for trivia.
"When we were given this assignment, I brushed up on the Lippe-Biesterfelds as well as the current monarchy of the Netherlands. It just so happens the Queen and the Prince's marriage is a morganatic one as well."
"You mean Juliana's husband is of lower status?"
"Yes, but the Queen mother, Wilhelmina, deemed him a suitable husband for her daughter Princess Juliana. He was of royal rank as the Lippe-Biesterfelds were once a sovereign house in the German Empire, though the Principality no longer existed."
"Hans' name is Biestervald, that's a different spelling... so is he really a royal?"
"Yes, but he is a very distant cousin to the Prince, with a spelling variant of the family name and quite far down the pecking order in the Biesterfeld family." Illya continued lecturing his partner.
"The Prince consort here is held in rather high regard in this country, as he was a genuine war hero in the eyes of most of the Dutch and has even kept cordial relations with the communists who fought against the Nazis. Though he is of German birth and had once belonged to the Nazi party; he adopted all things Dutch and proved his loyalty to his new homeland. The Prince consort took a very real and important role in the leadership of the Dutch Armed forces. He's been, in part, responsible for the country's great economic growth after the war.
"So you did your homework about the Prince, and what does that have to do with his cousins marriage?" Napoleon asked, just slightly bewildered by all this seemingly useless information.
"I am getting to the point that even the Prince consort himself comes from a left-handed marriage, as his parents did not properly conform to the marriage laws of the House of Lippe and their nuptials too were morganatic."
"So if the Lippe-Biesterfelds family no longer have their principality and are of lower status, why the royal treatment here with a distant cousin who's really of no consequence?" Napoleon asked.
"Hans is still a member of a wealthy family as well the bloodline, and connections to the royal family of the Netherlands, if just by having his marriage hosted by them, will help raise his status in the upper echelons of the royals throughout Europe. There is still the loyalty to the house of Lippe-Biesterfeld on the part of the Prince, and anything to bolster the position of one of its legitimate members is deemed noteworthy. I seriously doubt the Prince had even met this particular cousin until the wedding arrangements were requested. The wedding is all about show, and the Queen and her husbands acknowledgement of the marriage could only benefit Hans Biestervald and the family name."
"Are there that many aristocrats still floating around Europe? I only know of a few."
"Oh yes more than you realize. It is for occasions such as this they come crawling out of the woodwork, when they are not at Monte Carlo. Did you know there are even surviving members of the Romanov family living in England? Though their rank as lesser royals and nobility no longer carries the status and power that it used to before the turn of the century. As you recall, I am technically a Count, and a distant relation to the Romanovs on my mother's side, given after all, that I am the only surviving descendant and heir to my grandfather, Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin." Illya stuck out his chin with mock pride. "Though the title has absolutely no meaning what so ever, especially to me."
"Yes your royal-ness!" Napoleon saluted and clicked his heels, doffing his hat as well.
"Napoleon are you that ignorant of such things? A Count is a nobleman but is not one of royal birth. My grandfather was given the title by the Tsar for his loyal service to the Romanovs, and our family in Kyiv before the revolution, would have been noble, but certainly not of royal lineage."
"Well, exuuuse, me...your nobleness." Napoleon continued to tease his partner. "We don't exactly have nobility in the States, as you recall."
"Stoi." Illya snapped at him. "I never should have told you. This is just one of the reasons why I keep things to myself...you only use what I tell you as fodder for your joking and..."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you."
"Thank you, apology accepted." Illya answered quickly as his attention was drawn to the woman exiting the house.
At that moment, the stunning blonde bride to be paused in the doorway, stepping down carefully with the help of her attendants, and making her way slowly towards the limo. Her dress was a bejewelled white wedding gown, with an obscenely long train, looking very much like she had stepped out of a fairy tale. The layers of her large veil obscured her face, yet her presence brought the instant attention to those in the courtyard to her. The dress made her look as though she were bathed in a spotlight amidst everyone else dressed in dark colors.
Several of her brides maids helped her to the car where she stopped, lifting her veil and glaring at Illya with a rather condescending look.
"Well aren't you going to open the fucking door for me you idiot." She snapped a wad of chewing gum in her mouth.
Illya looked like he was ready to say something regrettable, as her uncouth behavior had rubbed him the wrong way too many times this past week. It was time to tell her off, as the assignment was drawing to a close; anticipating this by the telltale look on his partner's face, Napoleon stepped in.
"Now now, no need to abuse the help. Allow me."
She huffed as he opened the door and Napoleon paused to wink at his partner. Illya took his cue from that and spun on his heels, heading immediately to the driver's door, getting in and starting the engine with a roar. He kept his mouth shut for once.
"Miss St. Johns, you might want to lose the gum before we arrive at the church?" Napoleon took a delicate tone with her.
"Oh yeah right." She looked around the back of the limo for a tissue and finding none, she stared at Solo.
He sighed, grimacing as he held out his gloved hand, while she spit the gum into it.
Illya watched with amusement in the rearview mirror as Napoleon slipped off his grey glove and shoved it and the offending masticated mess into the door pocket.
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The bells of St. Nicholas Church in the Old Center district of Amsterdam rang out as the limo approached. It was a vision of Neo-Baroque beauty, crowned by two towers with a rose window in between. Forming the center of the window was a bas-relief depicting Christ and the four Evangelists, and a sculpture of the patron saint of both the church and the city of Amsterdam stood in a niche in the upper section of the gable top. The crossing, articulated by a large octagonal tower with a Baroque dome and lantern, was topped by a cross. It seemed incongruous and that the dome could be seen reflected in the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal along the nearby popular Red Light District.
In front of the church, soldiers were posted, dressed in the black and gold uniforms of the Garderegiment Grenadiers en Jagers, the ceremonial guards to the royal family. They stood straight at attention, much like the guards at Buckingham Palace as they lined the steps leading up to the entranceway of the cathedral. Their presence indicated the royal family was already inside, and a small crowd had gathered outside in hopes of seeing some royals, especially the Queen. It was rare there was a church wedding of such significance as the Netherlands were a secular country and weddings were usually a civil service. As Illya had said, this was all for show.
Marie Therese le Claire-St. Johns exited the limo without a word as her entourage and attendants circled around her, fussing over straightening the gown and train, and passing a different floral bouquet to her, one consisting of many brightly colored flowers and not those of white lilies and baby's breath she first carried into the limo with her.
Napoleon quickly slipped from the car as did Illya; their job wasn't done until she entered the church and the ceremony was complete. They preceded her, walking up the steps, with Napoleon stepping to the side in the rear of the church, giving himself a good view of everyone and everything.
The layout of the basilica consisted of a nave, two aisles, a single transept and at the end of the nave was where the choir was located. There was a collection of religious murals above the high altar along with the crown of Maximilian the first in full view; it was a symbol seen throughout Amsterdam.
A 19th century Sauer Organ rang out, announcing the arrival of the bride with seven long notes, but the music that followed was surprisingly unfamiliar to Illya as he discreetly walked up along one of the aisles, positioning himself at a good vantage point to side of the high altar. This enabled him to watch the ceremony and the participants more closely, as well as to keep an eye on the guests nearest the royal family.
Illya took a good look at Hans Biestervald as he waited by the altar, dressed in a garish red-jacketed uniform with gold epaulettes. He was a middle-aged balding man with a bit of a paunch and Illya wondered how he did indeed manage to hook up with the likes of Marie St. John. Perhaps Napoleon was right, if Hans was well endowed and gifted in bed, he supposed a beautiful air head like her could be attracted to him...and his money of course. He forced himself not to laugh.
He continued gazing out across the church, filled with people of varying ranks, with the Queen and her husband sitting in the front pews. There were, of course, members of De Binnenlandse Veiligheidsdienst present, the Dutch secret service, in charge of internal security. It was their task to guard the Queen and her family. Still if anything happened, the U.N.C.L.E. agents were authorized to step in if needed.
The organist began the overture, something Illya recognized this time...an exquisite rendering of Motets and cantatas by Johann Pachelbel, to the choir singing Johann Sebastian Bach.
Once the religious ceremony had concluded, the civil service would take but a few minutes, out of sight in the nave. Following that, the U.N.C.L.E. agents would be released from any further obligation, as Marie Therese and her husband would become the sole responsibility of the De Binnenlandse Veiligheidsdienst, until they left the Netherlands.
All heads turned their attention to the center aisle, as a dark-haired child who was the flower girl, scattered white rose petals as she walked forward with a look of innocent delight in her eyes. Several bridesmaids followed, clothed in long gowns of dark evergreen. All eyes became transfixed, though, as the bride began her trip to the altar, to yet another obscure musical piece the Russian did not recognize.
As she took her place opposite her husband to be, Illya noticed something odd. There was a dark object seemingly hidden in her bouquet of bright wildflowers.
He stared across the church, locating Napoleon, signaling to him that he had a concern, and whispered into a micro-transmitter clipped to his wristwatch. His partner was wearing an earpiece and momentarily cupped his ear to listen. "What's wrong?" He asked, speaking into his own transmitter.
"Maybe nothing, but I am seeing something dark hidden in Marie's bouquet...it could be a bomb."
"Really? I didn't see anything in the car...wait, one of the attendants handed her different flowers once she got out of the limo."
There was a shrill scream, and Illya dove to the altar, tackling Marie as she held a pistol in her left hand that she'd pulled from the flowers and aimed directly at the Queen. His momentum knocked the bride off-balance, with the pistol letting off a single shot into the air. She let out a blood curdling howl, wrestling for the weapon with the Russian as they rolled together down the marble steps to the aisle; the two of them becoming wrapped together in the long train of her gown.
Napoleon ran up the aisle towards them, aiming his Special and shooting the woman with a sleep dart, but not before her pistol went off a second time. She and Illya were surrounded by the Dutch secret service, while more of them whisked the royal family to safety. Solo pushed his way through, finding his partners face spattered with blood.
He refrained from cursing as he knelt beside his friend; Illya had been winged in his right shoulder, but was conscious.
"I am all right Napoleon..."
The wounded Russian was helped to his feet, and brought to one of the side chapels to await transport to the nearest hospital. Security and the royal guards saw to the orderly evacuation of the church, as well as disbursing the crowd of onlookers still gathered outside, who had no clue about what had just taken place in the cathedral.
The De Binnenlandse Veiligheidsdienstto had subdued Marie St. Johns, taking her to be questioned and of course an inquiry would be made about who she really might be. No background check of any significance had apparently been done on her.
Hans Biestervald sat looking very forlorn on the altar steps, with his head in his hands. He was completely in shock and bewildered by the behavior of the woman he loved. "This has to be a conspiracy by some left-wing group...they had to have hypnotized her into doing this. "Mein Schatzi konnte nicht so etwas von ihrem eigenen freien Willen getan haben_my schatzi couldn't have done such a thing of her own free will." He decried in German.
.
Illya lay restless in his hospital bed, with his right arm strapped securely in a sling. The bullet from Marie's weapon had gone deep enough that it would prevent him from using his arm for a while. He would be released to return to New York along with Napoleon in one more day, and was told the Prime Minister wished to give him a medal of heroism for his bravery and quick thinking, but Alexander Waverly had, thankfully declined on his behalf, saying it was unnecessary as his agent was simply doing his job.
Napoleon walked into the hospital room with a surprise for his moody friend; carrying a Vlaai, better known as Limburgse vlaai, a fruit filled tart. In it there could be a varieties of fruit fillings, but this one was cherry, and sprinkled with shavings of dark Dutch chocolate, the Russians favorite.
"So you didn't get your medal, but here's a little reward for a job well done, and for not getting yourself killed."
Illya reached out with his left hand, gratefully accepting the confection and immediately biting into it. "Fank you. Mmm, better van a medal any day," he said with his mouth full before he swallowed. "This is delicious...so any word about who Marie le Claire-St. John really is?"
"A little bird." Napoleon smiled.
"T.H.R.U.S.H.? Hmmm, Hans would have definitely been marrying waaaay below his status." Illya chuckled.
"Her real name is Rebekka Duisternis, she's an expatriate and a member of our 'feathered friends' femme fatale assassin squad, though like Hans, she too is quite a bit lower in the 'pecking' order. Successfully completing this assignment would have gained her a nice spot in Centrals 'nest'.
"Mmm, Rebekka translates to... a woman whose beauty snares men and Duisternis in Dutch means darkness...interesting name." Illya mused. Though she does not strike me as being of the same caliber as Angelique and Serena. Perhaps our feathered friends are lowering their standards; she was after all a bit of a 'bird' brain? Do you not think?
"I don't know about that, she had you and me pretty well fooled. With Angelique and Serena, you knew who they were and how they operated from the get go," Napoleon answered. "But this one... she might actually have been a more dangerous 'bird of prey.' We're thinking though, she had to have had some help. Dutch security is still trying to find the rest of the brides maids for questioning; you know how these 'birds of a feather flock together'."
"They probably flew 'south'..." Illya quipped, trying to get in the last bad pun. "Well, she is in custody now, a 'bird in a gilded cage', so to speak, and we have no more worries there, do we?"
Napoleon screwed up his face before replying. "Not exactly, seems she, umm...'flew the coop'."
Illya rolled his eyes, but continued to eat his tart, not missing a beat. He was finished trying to out-pun his partner, with the dessert finally having his full attention and he let out a belch of satisfaction.
Napoleon frowned at his rudeness. "Hey manners?"
Illya smiled at him. "In the ancient days in Rome, not to have done so would have been considered an insult...but I suppose from me, it was a rather left-handed compliment, and considering my circumstances..." He teased, raising his left hand, waving it at his partner and picking up the tart again with ease.
Napoleon watched in bemusement as the Russian used his left hand with the same dexterity as he did his right. For some reason he recalled Marie...or more correctly, Rebekka being left handed herself.
All joking aside; he suddenly had this rather serious, but ethereal image of Illya being at the right hand of good or light so to speak, while Rebekka was at the left hand of … evil and darkness, given her somewhat prophetic last name. Napoleon smiled at himself, thinking that was pretty neat play on words, no pun intended this time. She was, however, one little lefty they'd have to be more careful with in the future.
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Finis
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Note: there is no real Hans Biestervald, though the late Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands was a member of the Lippe-'Biesterfeld' family.