Napoleon Solo lay under the silk sheets, staring in awe at the beautiful woman who was on top of him; her long luxurious brunette hair cascading down to caress his naked chest.
Joanna Winthrop, as wild a vixen both in and out of bed; he'd never met anyone quite like her and even his paramour Angelique couldn't hold a candle to this gorgeous creature.
There was more to her than her looks. She was not only sexy but smart, clever and she made him smile and laugh a like a kid...that hadn't happened since, well Clara was in his life.
When he was with Joanna, she made him forget all his troubles. There were few people who could do that to him in earnest...
She took a white silk scarf, tying it around one of his wrists…
"Do you trust me my love?" She whispered to him.
"With my life." There was only one other person in the world to whom he had ever uttered those words. Love, that was the word. He'd fallen head over heels in love with her.
Joanna wrapped his other wrist in the scarf as she tied it off to the wrought iron headboard, taking control of their lovemaking and Solo uncharacteristically surrendered to her…
.
After their marathon session was over, they showered together and dressed, readying their suitcases for their return trip. The fantasy was almost over for now, but not quite yet.
Napoleon had a ring in his pocket, and Joanna had no idea. It would have to be a long engagement, as the Command didn't allow field agents to marry. He was the best in the organization, and couldn't abandon his duty just yet, but he wanted to let her know how much she meant to him. He hoped she'd wait for him.
It wasn't like they'd be apart. They could live together until the day came that he was free to marry. She'd have him, heart and soul.
"I'll head over to the train station to make sure the Pullman arrangements are all set." he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. Though they were returning to New York after their glorious New Orleans vacation, their time together wouldn't be at an end. Joanna lived in Queens and they'd see each other again. It was time to take their relationship to a new level, or so Solo thought.
Napoleon had fallen for her and hard. He'd professed his love to Joanna though he also confessed about his involvement with U.N.C.L.E. and explained the complications it would create in their lives. He'd done that once before with his Clara, but that turned into a disaster as she demanded he give up his job with the Command and he refused.
He took a big chance, telling Joanna his feelings, and she absorbed it all in silence; that seemed a good sign to him.
Their brief parting was sealed with an extremely passionate kiss as he readied to go to the train station.
"Hey I'm just going to…" His words were interrupted by Joanna's embrace. "Keep doing that and we'll miss our train," he smiled, reluctantly pulling away from her.
He left, checking on the final arrangements and waited for the luggage and Joanna to arrive from the hotel. The sky had darkened and it looked like a storm was blowing in from the South...remnants of a tropical storm that had hit the Gulf.
He spotted an attendant with the cart from the hotel but something was amiss; only his suitcases were on it.
An envelope was taped to the outside of his large valise, with his name written in Joanna's familiar handwriting, and he quickly opened it in confusion.
.
Dearest Napoleon,
I love you so much but I cannot live the life you have offered to me…. He read the letter in utter disbelief. Joanna was gone.
She'd left him.
A raindrop fell on the paper, then a second one, and another. Of course the sky had to open up in a downpour at that exact moment, though helped to hide the tears trickling down the American's cheeks.
He didn't care that he was getting soaked as his world had come to a screeching halt.
"Not again," he whispered to himself, thinking of what he'd gone through with Clara. He'd never really gotten over that, and part of him still loved her, but now he loved Joanna; it was she who mattered.
His heart was breaking for the second time in his life...
Solo was a trained agent capable of making life and death decisions but he wasn't without feelings. Right now they were raw and the world seemed to be moving in slow motion around him.
Napoleon stood there out of sync, but in reality everything was in a frenzy as people ran, trying to escape the torrential rainfall.
With his mouth agape, he finally bit his lower lip as he crumpled up the note, letting it drop to a puddle that had formed at his feet. He paused, thinking twice and picked it up, stuffing it into his pocket.
Stepping up to board the train; he turned one last time to scan the platform for her, hoping against hope she'd changed her mind, but there was no sign of her. Everything was nearly empty now.
In his heart he bid her au revoir et bonne chance. She had always liked it when he spoke French to her though, no teasing about his accent like Illya did, no Joanna let his faults just slip.
This would be the last time he would speak French to her, even though it was from afar.
At last he walked inside the car, knowing he'd lost another woman because of the Command.
"Was it worth it Solo? He asked himself for the second time in his life and came up with the same answer…"Yes."
He'd devoted himself to U.N.C.L.E. and taken a solemn oath to its precepts. This agent believed in it and wouldn't give it up for the sake of his personal desires; though there was one time in Algeria he almost did, to near disastrous and deadly results. *
Napoleon Solo knew he belonged to U.N.C.L.E. In fact, it was she who was his true mistress, the only love he might ever know until the day he died…
He sat in his private compartment, staring at the beds meant for two, and finally leaned his head against the window; looking out at the landscape but seeing nothing as he listening to the hypnotic clickety-clack of the wheels on the track.
He went to the dining car late in the afternoon, and was seated alone; he ordered a Scotch on the rocks...a double and sat sipping it slowly.
"Hi, may I join you," a shapely and petite blonde smiled at him. "Seems there's limited seating for us singles...you are alone aren't you?"
Napoleon smiled as only he could do. "Well we're not alone now, please by all means, join me. My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo." He rose helping her to seat her.
"Why aren't you the gentleman? That's such a rare quality nowadays. My name is Candy Sweet."
"Oh I bet you are."
"You know that line never gets old with me for some reason? She smiled.
Napoleon waved for the waiter, getting his new companion a drink.
"Hmmm, perhaps the trip home wasn't going to be that bad after all," he thought, realizing destiny had sent him a pleasant distraction to temper his feelings about Joanna. "What was that saying? It was like getting back on a horse after a fall…"
.
When his train arrived in New York City, there was a familiar blond head poking itself over the top of a copy of the Daily News as the man casually leaned against a steel support beam
"Ah yes,' New York's picture newspaper, " Napoleon remarked as he stepped up to greet his partner,"I thought you only read the New York Times?"
"I like the photographs," Illya tossed the paper in a nearby trash receptacle without a second thought. He looked around, noticing Solo was alone.
"Where is Joanna?"
"Long story for another time," Napoleon nodded as he lifted his suitcases.
Illya grabbed one. "Come we have a car waiting for us and an assignment."
"Already? I don't even get time to unpack and freshen up?"
"You can do that after the briefing as Mr. Waverly wants you at headquarters immediately; you know, the usual megalomaniac trying to take over the world by nefarious means."
Napoleon didn't react to that statement and Illya noticed it immediately.
"Are you sure you are all right my friend? No pernicious pun?"
"As you like to say tovarisch, I'm fine...always fine." There was no spark in the American's voice.
In his heart Kuryakin knew that wasn't the truth, but Napoleon seemed reticent to discuss the issue; perhaps later or not at all. Did it matter in the long run?
He kept his secrets from his American friend; so his partner should be allowed the same privilege.
Still, he knew Napoleon would eventually bare his soul and unburden himself of whatever had happened. Sometimes his partner needed saving from himself, but that would happen only when he was ready.
Illya Kuryakin would be there to pick up the pieces, as always…
It was quarter to three in the morning when a bedraggled Napoleon Solo sat alone at the bar in P.J. Clarke's. It occupied a building located on Third Avenue on the northeast corner of East 55th Street.
This particular drinking establishment went way back as it was a good old fashioned saloon established in the late 1800's.
The bar was once owned by a Patrick J. Clarke, an Irish emigrant who was hired in the early 1900s by a Mr. Dineen, who ran the saloon. After about ten years working for him Clarke bought the bar and changed the name and it had been in business under that name ever since.
Besides being open for such a long time, it had another claim to fame and that was that Nat King Cole once proclaimed in the late '50s that his P.J. Clarke's bacon cheeseburger was "the Cadillac of burgers!"
Whether that was true or not was immaterial to Napoleon Solo at the moment; he wasn't there to eat. All he wanted was another drink.
After ordering it with Sean Óg the bartender ( so named young Sean as he was the younger of two bartenders there with the same first name) he got up from his barstool and headed over to the juke box. Putting in his money, Napoleon made his selection, though as soon as he did it...he regretted it.
"Sinatra?" Sean Óg looked up."I wouldn't have taken ye for an 'Old blue eyes kinda guy Mr. Solo."
The bartender poured another scotch but this time he placed an upturned glass on the bar in front of Napoleon. That was 'bartender speak' for the next drink being on the house.
"Thanks Sean,"Napoleon raised his glass, saluting the man.
The song on the jukebox played loudly to an empty place, except for Solo and the bartender.
"It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except
you and me. So, set 'em up, Joe, I got a little story you oughta know…"
Napoleon downed his drink, lowering his head. All he could think of was Joanna Winthrop, his Joanna. Well not his anymore; she'd left him.
They'd spent a wonderful vacation together, but were readying to return to New York via Pullman train. They had their own private compartment where they could spend the time making love the entire trip home.
He'd professed his love for her, told her about his involvement with U.N.C.L.E….she had the right to know what she was getting into.
He left her for a very short time to get the tickets, and when he returned, Napoleon found a letter attached to his luggage.
It was a 'Dear John' letter.
Joanna professed her love for him, but told him she couldn't live not knowing if every time he walked out the door would be his last. She couldn't ask him to change, as it wasn't fair. Not to either of them…
It was happening again...a lost love because of U.N.C.L.E. First it was Clara, and now Joanna. Still there was something inside of Napoleon that made it impossible to give up the command. It was his duty, his calling…Joanna somehow understood that.
Napoleon canted his head to one side, listening to Sinatra sing. What in heaven's name made him pick this song?
.
"We're drinkin', my friend, to the end of a brief episode
Make it one for my baby and one more for the road
I got the routine, so drop another nickel in the machine
I'm feelin' so bad, wish you'd make the music pretty and
sad I could tell you a lot, but you've got to be true to your code…"
.
He pulled a tattered and crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was water stained and looked as though it had been read a hundred times.
Dearest Napoleon,
I love you so much but I cannot live the life you have offered to me. T
To deal with your possible death day in and day out is just too much for me to bear. The thought of losing you in such a violent way is unthinkable. I can't ask stop what you do; to you to give up your life for me, that wouldn't be fair...just as you asking me to live this way wouldn't be fair either.
I know this is a cowards way out; running off and not even saying goodbye to you in person, but I can't face you. I know I'll weaken to the power you have over me and that will be a mistake. My instincts tell me this is the best way. Better I lose you now and not know that you've been tortured and killed on some foreign soil.
I'm so so sorry to hurt you and I know I'm being selfish. I guess this is my way of preserving my sanity. You'll get over me in time, as I will get over you. Life goes on and in your case I pray it will do so for a long time. Please don't try to find me.
Take care of yourself,
Joanna
.
He crumpled it and set it in a nearby ashtray. Taking out a book of matches from his other pocket, he lit one and set the note on fire.
Once it was but blackened ashes, Sean poured a glassful of water on it, making sure it was extinguished, no questions asked.
This was one story Napoleon knew he couldn't share with the bartender, although he was sure Sean knew his mood had to do with a woman. With Solo it always had to do with a woman, but not like this…
Napoleon downed his last drink, whispering to himself…
" Just make it one for my baby and one more for the road..."
"Hey Sean, could you ask around for me and see if anyone would like to buy a diamond ring...cheap?"
"Sure will do."
Napoleon gathered his coat, saluting Sean Óg and headed for the door.
"G'night Mr. Solo. Safe home to ye." Sean shook his head, knowing his customer was hurting bad. At times the young bartender felt like the father confessor as his customers would, given enough drink, bare their souls to him.
He never pried though, especially with the likes of Mr. Solo. There was something different about him, something dangerous, yet he knew deep down the man was a decent sort.
Still a diamond ring? That meant a woman, and the man obviously had a broken heart. It was easy to see Mr. Solo was hurting. That wasn't hard to figure out. Maybe someday he'd be told what happened, after all your barman was like a 'father confessor'... or maybe not.
Still Sean Óg would be here for him if ever that day came.
The barman locked up the door, and closed the lights. It was time to go home to his Mary and their wee one born not a year ago. He was blessed, to be sure.
"Dear Lord look after Mr. Solo," Sean suddenly whispered a short prayer." He needs it."