HAPPY NEW YEAR'S EVE
The thought of New Year's Eve conjured warm, tingly thoughts in Napoleon Solo's mind. A candlelight dinner for two in the evening, dancing at an intimate club, entwined arms as he and a luscious brunet, blond or red-head drank rare champagne from expensive crystal flutes. All this delicious foreshadowing culminating in a delectable midnight kiss to celebrate the New Year.
A deep sigh escaped, born of the enticing fantasies. The breath clouded in the freezing atmosphere. He sighed again, shivering under his black trench coat, resigned that his romantic imaginings inevitably remained just ethereal wishes for another several days and nights. Rare were the times he had actually been able to celebrate a holiday – Christmas, New Year, Fourth of July – even a birthday – in some cozy situation with the vivacious date of his choice.
A spy's life was not conducive to enjoyment of mundane merriments. In his profession, he had learned to find amusement, pleasure, fulfillment, in creative and unusual methods and avenues. Admittedly, that was one reason he did not bother with relationships of any depth, meaning or commitment. His career encouraged a shallow existence without ties, bonds or complications. It DID help keep one's life streamlined, sleek and without depth. A reflection of the disposable posture of the profession. Such attitudes also encouraged an aloof barrier between agents and everyday people celebrating traditions and family-centered activities. Thus, Christmas, or New Year's, then, became opportunities to party if possible. Or shed any encumbering ties of the temporary ritual, then start the next new day with no obligation or emotional entanglement.
Traditional affections and connections were shunned, he corrected. The tension coursing through his nerves tonight was caused by a unique attachment. And blond.
Ring Out Wild Bells drifted on the night air from somewhere. A near apartment with a bold and daring occupant! Listening to Radio Free Europe! Dangerous in these parts. Cheers to that unseen, brave soul, he silently nodded.
It sounded like the same, scratchy music from his childhood in WWII/Cold War London. The recollections ranged from frightening, to bitter, then distant. At a young age he learned to push aside the unpleasant and make it work for him. An excellent example was this broadcast of a BBC holiday song.
The divorce of his parents. His vile mother's exit was summoned up by this tune's era. Her escape from family Solo spawned the start of his independent nature. She called him Reilly to spite his father's choice of first name. A close friend of his diplomat maternal grandparents was Sidney Reilly, the renowned international spy. Family lore claimed they inspired his nom deplume. His infamy as a lady's man was as legendary as his genius for espionage.
Napoleon smirked. Irony indeed!
Reilly was rumored to have rescued Anastasia and her brother Alexi from the Bolsheviks. For which he was – supposedly - summarily executed. Some whispers indicated he had survived the Red plot, escaped with Anastasia to England, and was employed as one of Churchill's shadow warriors.
Traditionally, the Solo men were ever named after famous military heroes. Admiral Horatio Solo, father, renowned for service in two wars. Admiral Wellington Solo, grandfather, Naval Intelligence. Maternal grandparents, diplomats/OSS spies - Douglas and Dublin-born Emily Reilly Thornton.
During the war and afterwards his father's abandonment to the sea and Admiral's duties sent Napoleon to various locales. Mostly with his Thornton grandparents in their consulate flat, in bomb shelters, or at rural estates.
Never in one place for long, there were brief stays at boarding schools in the English countryside. Those regimented, cold bastions trained Napoleon to be adamantly independent, resourceful, even cunning.
In those formative circumstances he embraced his name, his identity, his creed: Solo. Solusviri fortissimi – lone valiant. The family motto. It served him in good stead in his youth. An American named Napoleon in an English boarding school better know how to defend himself! Physically, resourcefully and emotionally. That last had been where his armor had become thick and impenetrable. His future path clear – solo.
Then always back to London. Included in the clandestine circle Aunt Amy Stanton Solo, widow of OSS officer Captain Joshua Solo, Napoleon's KIA uncle. As well as diplomat Jonathan Williams and wife Clara – coincidently uncle and aunt of Dan Williams of Hawaii Five-0. When Napoleon was older he learned that this social group were espionage agents; an assortment of British and American eccentrics and aristocrats –all OSS.
Finally returning to the States as a young teen to a military preparation conservatory. His skills continued on a career path which seemed his fate.
The US Naval Academy had been his destiny from the beginning, as with all Solo men. Somewhere in there came his Grandfather Thornton's influence. The elder Statesman saw an inventive and stealthy potential in his progeny.
Showing an aptitude for risk, cleverness and general sneakiness, Napoleon excelled in the clandestine courses. An aptitude for innovative shrewdness, steely nerves, craftiness and mission focus took him into Naval Intelligence Command. Then Japan, then Korea, then UNCLE.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
He remembered hearing this tune echoing from a country church bell tower. English Full Circle Bells was an old Brit custom to ring out the old year and ring in the new year. Some bells ring half-muffled for the death of the old year, then no muffle for the new year.
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Perhaps Alfred Lord Tennyson thought of that nostalgic tradition when he wrote the famous poem turned to a song.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Feeling a nostalgic wave, Napoleon pondered those long ago years in London during the war. A different war than the one he engaged in now. As a child he was enthralled by the aura of covert whispers and hidden intrigue in the Thornton household. What a foreshadowing it had proved for his life!
Solo. It was his motto. His smirk was grim. HAD BEEN his motto as a child, then youth, then adult. Solusviri fortissimi – lone valiant.
In Korea he had been part of an NI team. There had been four of them working together. His code name: Solus lupus. Lone Wolf. That sobriquet had changed. Those
valiant officers taught him there was value in unity. That was the first time he had demonstrated his penchant for deviating from mission parameters to save a fellow agent. A hard-won lesson and disturbing conclusion to a victorious, even clever rescue! He had gone out – solo – on numerous hunts to rescue his captured POW friend, Lieutenant Stephen McGarrett, now the leader of Hawaii Five-0. Happily, the search had been successful. Because of his decision to take matters into his own hands – working solo – the two NI agents had been assigned separate countries after that.
A precursor of his circumstances all these years later!
Then it was back to solo.
Until his blond Russian stepped into his life. Feeling strangely full-circle nostalgic this New Year's Eve, he marveled at the chain of events in his life! Russian Sydney Reilly+ Thornton/OSS+Navy+UNCLE+Russian - Kuryakin.
If he believed in Fate he would think his life had been destined for where he was now. At just this spot. Hearing of ringing out the old and bringing in the new. Spending another night in a cold alley. Danger behind every shadowed doorway. Tensely waiting for anything – a shoot-out - an arrest - dire evidence that THIS mission had gone wrong and his partner was in peril. Or worse!
The slamming of a metal door echoed loudly on the quiet street. It brought his focus back to the hazardous present. Holding his breath, Solo peaked around the corner and scanned the drizzle-soggy asphalt of the small byway. Recent rain-turned-sleet had left the black top glistening with icy crystals of frozen moisture. Weak, sallow lamplight at the corner lent sparkling bronze stars to reflectively glitter in puddles at the dismal scene.
The metal grated, clanked, and slammed again. A man emerged from the shadows of the prison; hands buried deep in the pockets of a charcoal peacoat, his head all but obscured by a knit cap. The thin figure stared at the ground as he walked, following the sidewalk from the dreaded jail, toward an intersection.
A taxicab careened onto the lane and screeched to a halt. The lithe form did not flinch, but merely stopped at the edge of the curb, a few feet from the front bumper.
Napoleon's heart stopped, agonized by the close-call. He held his breath again as he watched, tense, hand on the stock of his Walther, poised to go into instant action if necessary. Everything had gone so smoothly up until now! Don't let it fall apart so close to the end!
A very drunk woman with wildly curly, dark hair leaned out the window of the car. The message was indecipherable in the language of the streets and alcohol. Napoleon did pick up the suggestive tone and the words New Year in the local dialect.
The man in the black jacket and trousers adroitly sidestepped the cab and continued toward the alley. Solo puffed out a sigh, realizing too late his breath was visible, and he buried his mouth in his scarf to hide the billowing vapor.
Snow started a gentle cascade from the midnight sky. Quickly it turned to thick, heavy shavings dusting the atmosphere. The slender man in black was etched in shimmery specks as icy flakes peppered his clothing.
Illya Kuryakin had entered the prison on a mission to ascertain if a fellow UNCLE agent was dead. What a grim assignment to start the new year. A necessary obligation: Solo didn't argue or question. That had been his only reaction when given the orders two days ago when Kuryakin and he were sitting in Waverly's warm office high above a sunny, if chilly, New York. He had been glad the two of them were sitting side by side - receiving the mission to check on someone else's possible death – not Illya's.
The short figure casually strolled past, then suddenly dipped into the dark alley. Pressing his back flat to the old brick building, coming within inches of Solo's shoulder.
"Mission accomplished?"
"Yes," came Kuryakin's quiet response. "Schmitz is dead. He has been for several days. Positive identification."
The grim news came with the disappointment and mourning that accompanied all losses of agents. They were colleagues. Schmitz was his responsibility, one of his
Section Two operatives. Solo did not ask details of cause or condition. Those would be contained in the official report submitted by his Number Two Section Two.
With the distress came a corresponding relief that it had been someone else this time, not his partner.
"Too bad."
"Yes."
The dim reflected radiance of the distant streetlight cast only the faintest illumination into the alley now that the air was thick with snow. In the weak glow he could make out Illya's fair face and an edging of straw-colored hair peeking out from under the cap. The eyes that regarded him were nearly obscured in shadow, but he imagined the crisp, blue orbs sharply scrutinizing him, reading thoughts that were obvious and familiar.
"The only good . . . "
Solo allowed the statement under his sigh to fade away. A vaporous prayer of gratitude as ethereal as the condensed breath on the frozen blackness. Superstition and masculine reticence prevented him from completing the thought. Reading the nearly inscrutable face before him, he knew there was no need to complete the emotional confession.
"I am also," Kuryakin finished for him. Then gave a curt nod.
No need to say more, they both knew it was unnecessary. They were mutually thankful on this grave, depressing quest for a grim, yet positive outcome.
A distant bell chimed and echoed through the quiet streets with twelve peals. Revelers could be heard at some celebration away from the bleak area of the prison.
With a nod of his head, Kuryakin led the way toward the other side of the alley. They would make their way back to their modest hotel and pack their bags, then go straight to the airport. They were still in dangerous territory for UNCLE agents, and the sooner they left the better.
So, another New Year's Eve had come and gone. So much for his vivid and enticing fantasies. Watching the shorter figure ahead of him, Napoleon considered this was not a meaningless way to spend this holiday.
Grim, yes. Bitterly cold on several levels, yes. Warmed that the end of the year and the literal end for one agent had not been the mortal finish for his friend or himself. And the new beginning found them unbroken.
This was not celebrating in the expected meaningless fashion – drowning in liquor and the attentions of a gorgeous woman whose name he would not remember when he awoke. His life was altered now.
Solusviri fortissimi – lone valiant. Solus lupus. Lone Wolf. Perhaps he would have to think of a new motto and nickname?
Now, he was connected with the blond of his choice with whom he held a relationship deeper than any girlfriend could ever achieve: Partner.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Happy New Year!