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Nobody knew Napoleon Solo was a superstitious man and that’s just the way he liked it. After all, it didn’t do to advertise a personal weakness.
Napoleon kept this particular character flaw deeply hidden, guarded even from friends and colleagues. The only time he’d allowed his superstitious nature free rein had been during his stint in the army. There, he’d had company. Superstition was the order of the day when your life was constantly at risk: don’t take the third light from a match in case of snipers; never mention rain in case it changed the weather; hold your breath when walking past a cemetery. No, it didn’t do to tempt fate during war.
Therefore today, Halloween of all days, when a black cat had crossed his path and the side view mirror of his car had cracked, Napoleon was understandably somewhat perturbed as he approached the house numbered 13.
Number 13 was an old two-story, red brick property, surrounded by a high wall. Entry to the property was through an ornate iron gate, which was currently wide open and leading to a path lit by small carved pumpkins. At the end of the path a porch was hung with plastic bats and spiders. An enormous carved pumpkin sat sentinel by the door.
Napoleon had to step back as a small gaggle of children dressed as ghosts, cowboys and robots trotted towards him down the path. Amused, he watched them a moment as they merged back into the meandering groups of children on the street before turning his attention back to No.13. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked down the path to the house.
Napoleon pushed aside a large cardboard skeleton hanging on the door, knocked and waited as footsteps approached on the other side. The door clicked open and a grotesque, hook-nosed face appeared making Napoleon step back. The head cocked to one side before a hand rose, pulling off the rubber witch’s mask to reveal a pretty brown-eyed brunette beneath. Napoleon’s concerned frown turned into a broad smile.
“Oh,” she said, “You’re too old for trick or treat. Are you lost? You’re not selling something are you, because I don’t need a new vacuum cleaner or a bible.”
“Ah, no,” Napoleon quickly interrupted her. “My name is Napoleon Solo. I’m looking for Isabella Conti.”
“Well, you’ve found her.” She opened the door wider. “What can I do for you?”
Napoleon withdrew his ID card, turning it for her to see. “I’m with the U.N.C.L.E. I’d like to talk to you about your brother, Marco.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “What’s he done now? Is he in trouble?”
“He could be if the wrong people find him before we do.” Napoleon glanced behind him at the street as costumed children and adults walked by. “Is there somewhere we can talk without being disturbed?”
“One moment.” She walked past him down the path to push the gate closed and turned the key in the lock. She slipped the key into her pocket with a pat and walked back, nodding her head towards the open door. He walked ahead of her into a large hall and waited while she shut the door behind them. As she passed by him, she ran a hand down his arm; a static like tingle followed the path of her fingers. Startled, Napoleon looked up at her, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.
“Just checking,” she said, cryptically. She smiled at him and moved away, ignoring a puzzled look from Napoleon, and gestured to the room on the right. “We can talk in here.”
He stopped just inside the archway, surprised by the volume of Halloween decorations. One wall was taken up by shelving holding bottles and jars lit up by numerous candles. In the centre of the room stood a large cauldron. Wispy curls of mist crept over the rim, dissipating over the side.
She saw his look and laughed. “Liquid nitrogen for effect. No eye of newt or toe of frog, I’m afraid.”
“Thought never crossed my mind.”
“I drag the witchy stuff out every year for Halloween. The kids get a kick out of it. And it adds to the atmosphere, don’t you think? This room is where I do most of my work.”
Napoleon turned from his study of an old book open on a lectern, wondering what sort of work would go on in such surroundings. “Work?”
“Yes, readings mostly.” She shrugged. “You could say it’s my occupation. I’m a practicing clairvoyant. And when I say practicing, I mean I’m adept at it, not that I’m still… practicing. People come to me for help and advice.” She pulled off the black robe she wore before smoothing down her mussed hair.
“So, you’re a fortune teller?”
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “The people who come to see me aren’t usually interested in fortunes. My clients are people who want advice and reassurance. You know, should they take a job they’ve been offered, are they making the right decision to move house, will they ever get married, that sort of thing. Oh, and I offer weather forecasts, too.”
Amused, Napoleon said, “Weather forecasts?”
“For the local farmers.” She walked around, blowing out the candles. “Although, technically that’s not so much prediction, more a combination of gut feeling and a barometer, but it pays the bills.”
He walked around, studying the eclectic mix of objects on the shelves. At eyelevel, sitting between two fat candles, was a sleek black cat sitting like a sphinx. At first Napoleon had thought it another Halloween effect, but as he neared the cat became animated, hissing at him. He took a step away.
She grinned at Napoleon’s unease. “That’s Charlie. He just turned up on the doorstep one day. He’s been here ever since.” She reached out a hand and Charlie pushed his head into her palm. “Every witch should have a familiar.”
“Witch?”
“Well, only on Halloween,” she said, waving the grotesque mask at him.
“And you’re a psychic?” Napoleon’s skepticism showed in his smile.
“Yes. I have the gift. Something I inherited from my mother as she did from her mother.” She raised her chin proudly. “I come from a long line of soothsayers.””
Napoleon smiled. “Can your soothsaying predict where your brother is going to be?”
“Not unless he was standing in front of me and that would make the point moot, don’t you think? My talent depends on proximity. I need to touch the person or a personal item for the psychic connection to work.”
Napoleon remembered her touch when he entered the house, the strange frisson of electricity at the contact. He frowned and wagged a finger back towards the hallway. “Did you—?“
“Yes.”
His head cocked to one side. “How did you know what I was going to say?”
“Psychic, remember? You were going to ask if I read you when you came in. You’re not too difficult to read, Mr Solo. You pretty much wear your heart on your sleeve anyway. And it’s a big heart, you got there.” She cocked her head to one side at Napoleon’s barely concealed amusement. “You don’t believe me.”
He wrinkled his nose as he turned away from her gaze. “I’m not sure I believe in the supernatural.”
“Really? And yet you’re superstitious.”
Startled, Napoleon looked back at her. “What?”
“Superstitious. And don’t bother to deny it, I read you when you came in, remember? It must have set your pulse racing when you saw the number on my house.”
He didn’t deny it, but instead chose to defend it. “Superstitions aren’t supernatural.”
“Superstitions aren’t based on reason or logic, either.”
He shrugged, trying to play it down. “It’s an old habit from my army days. In my line of business, I need all the help I can get to stay alive.”
“You don’t need superstitions to keep you alive. You already have protection.”
Curious, he asked, “I do? What?”
“Not necessarily what.” She tossed the rubber mask onto a shelf and crossed her arms over her chest. “How can I help you with Marco?”
Napoleon blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Ah, well, if you could suggest someplace he might go, maybe to a friend’s house or a bar he might frequent.”
She considered a moment. “Well, the best I can do is to give you some names and a couple of places I know he used to hang out. Will that do?”
“It’s a start.”
She went to a drawer, pulling out a writing pad, a pen and an address book. She pointed the pen at him, going back to their previous exchange. “You know, you shouldn’t give in to superstition.” She sat down at the small table and gestured for him to join her.
“I don’t,” he denied, taking a seat opposite.
“Really?” She reached across the table to a condiment set, tipping over the salt.
Napoleon stared at the spillage, clamping his jaws together as he fought the impulse to give in to his nature.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I know you want to.”
He glanced at her before taking a pinch of the salt and throwing it over his left shoulder, annoyed at himself for giving in. But what harm would it do?
She leaned towards him, arms resting on the table. “I’ve spilt that salt pot a hundred times and I’ve never performed that ritual. I’m still here. Nothing bad happened to me.” She gestured towards Charlie. “Black cat crosses my path a thousand times a day. Nothing bad happened to me.” She pointed at a cracked mirror on the wall. “Broke that when I dropped it while putting it up two years ago. Nothing bad happened to me. For crying out loud, I live in a house numbered thirteen.” She rested a hand on his. “Millions of people all over the world every day do these things without coming to harm. Your superstitions are toxic. Let them go. You don’t need them.” She squeezed his hand before releasing it, leaned back. “So. Marco. What has he done now?”
Napoleon shook his head and said, “Erm, your brother stole a briefcase from the wrong man.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is there a right one to steal from?”
“Well, in this case, there most definitely was. If we don’t locate him before the owner does…”
“He’s toast,” she finished. She smiled wanly. “He always did have a knack for getting into trouble.”
She flipped open the address book. “What will you do to him if you find him?”
“We just want the contents of the case. Your brother will go free, with a little advice on choosing a better career path.”
She nodded. “Thank you. He’s not a bad person really, just a little wild.” She jotted something down on the paper and glanced back up at him as she wrote. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re an interesting man, Mr Solo.”
Inwardly, Napoleon smiled. He was confident in his ability to charm the opposite sex, a skill he’d honed to perfection over the years; an easy smile, a courtly manner, all he turned on automatically when dealing with a woman. “Why, thank you, Miss Conti,” he purred.
“Call me Izzy.”
“Call me Napoleon.”
“So, Napoleon.” She licked a finger and flipped a few pages of the address book before adding more notes to the pad. “I feel I should repay you for helping my brother.”
“There’s no need, really. They already pay me for this job.”
“I wasn’t thinking about monetary compensation.” She saw his smirk and raised eyebrows and chastised him. “Or that. I was thinking of a reading, a freebie.”
Napoleon shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I believe in fortune telling.”
“If you don’t believe in it, then what harm would it do?” She held out her hands, waiting, but Napoleon just stared down at her open palms.
She considered him silently a moment. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
Napoleon straightened up at the challenge and held out his hands. “No. Just don’t tell me anything bad.”
“I only deliver the good news.”
Napoleon smiled crookedly at her. Izzy leant forward, taking hold of his hands. She took a deep breath and Napoleon could feel that tingle again, seeping from her fingers to his, spreading up his arms, into his chest, leaving a pleasant warmth in its path. He watched her face as her breathing deepened and her eyes drifted closed.
“How does this work?” Napoleon asked.
“It doesn’t always,” she said, quietly. “Some people are a closed book, impossible to connect with. It’s a bit like tuning in a radio, finding the right wavelength.” Her eyes still closed, she squeezed his hands and sighed. After a few quiet moments, she said, “Oh, you were married, once.” Izzy smiled. “She was beautiful, dark hair, green eyes, a small mole on her upper lip.”
Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat; how could she know? The description of Catherine was exact. Her green eyes had been the first thing he’d noticed about her, that and the way she laughed. They’d connected the first day they’d met, as though their meeting had been destined. They were married nine months later, sure that their future together would be a long and fruitful one.
Izzy shook her head and opened her eyes. “I’m so sorry. You lost her.”
Napoleon felt a cold shiver down his spine. Few people knew of his heartbreaking loss; it was something still too painful to talk about. He stared hard at Izzy, wishing he could see inside her mind as she stared back. Napoleon felt she could see deep into his soul.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Tell me what you’d like to know? Ask me a question,” Izzy said.
Napoleon considered. There were so many things he’d like the answers to: would they ever defeat Thrush; would he survive to his fortieth birthday; could he ever…
Izzy interrupted his mental rambling. “Keep it simple.”
Simple he could do. Reminded of his wife, there was one question he would like the answer to. “Will I ever find love again?”
Izzy briefly opened one eye to look at him. “Good question. Let’s see… love, love…” Her eyes scrunched up in concentration. “Well, you’re not short of companionship, that’s for sure.”
Napoleon shifted restlessly in his seat. “I have plenty of friends.”
“Mm. Most of them women. You’re surrounded by people but none of them hold your attention for long. You flit from one to another, searching, hoping to find the same kind of connection you had with your wife.”
Yes, he’d looked for love a long time, a fact that had earned him a reputation as a womanizer. He’d spent the last few years bedding and wooing, wondering if there would ever come a day when he’d meet the right person, feel that same connection. Napoleon had gone through half the female population looking for that special someone. Izzy’s insight gave him goosebumps, but also gave him hope. He shuffled to the edge of his seat.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Just to warn you, I can’t give everyone the answer they’re looking for. Maybe there is someone, maybe there never will be. But let’s give it a try, shall we.” She stayed silent a while, squinting her eyes as though trying to see through fog. Finally, she shook her head. “I need a little help,” she said. She stood, taking a cloth covered object from the shelf. She placed it before her on the table and pulled off the black velvet cloth, revealing a beautiful crystal ball, perfectly spherical, perfectly clear. In its surface Napoleon could see a refracting image of himself.
“How does it work?” he asked lightly, as he peered into the glass sphere.
“It’s not like looking at a TV set. It doesn’t show me pictures, per se, but it helps to concentrate my mind, to focus it.” She rubbed her sleeve over the top, unnecessarily polishing it. She took hold of his hand. “Now, I need you to relax, open yourself to me.”
The room seemed to become unnaturally silent, the outside noises dimmed until all Napoleon could hear was his own breathing. The pleasant odor from a burning incense stick wafted around him as a gentle breeze tickled the hair on his head and made the candles flames dance. The room seemed to contract around them, until they were in a small, intimate bubble.
Izzy’s breathing evened out as she concentrated her gaze on the crystal ball. “I see someone. Someone…. I can’t quite make out the face. Wait… fair skin. Eyes, like blue topaz. Golden hair.” She frowned and peered at the glass globe. “Very large hands.”
Napoleon wasn’t sure about the hands, but… “Blond hair, blue eyes. She sounds like my type.”
“Mm.” She cocked her head to one side and closed her eyes. “I can hear Etta James playing in the background.” Izzy started to quietly sing, “At last, my love has come along, my lonely days are over…”
As Izzy fell silent, Napoleon asked, “Does your crystal ball tell you where I might find this paragon of womanhood?”
She opened her eyes, smiling. “Let’s see.”
Napoleon tapped a finger against the table top. “It would be helpful if she was on the same continent.”
Izzy grinned at him. “I’ll see what I can do.” She studied the ball again, taking a deep breath. “Oh!”
“What?”
“This person is close. Very, very close.”
Napoleon sat forward, caught up in the mood. “How close? Same city, same street?”
Izzy shrugged and frowned. “I don’t know, I just feel they’re… close.” She sat back and waved a hand around. “These things aren’t accurate to within a few feet, you know. It’s not like they’re going to walk up and knock on the door.”
Someone knocked on the door.
They stared at each other, till Izzy urged, “Go answer it.”
Napoleon shook his head. “Probably trick-or-treaters.”
“I locked the gate.”
So she did. Napoleon stood, feeling slightly unnerved. He paused with his hand on the handle before decisively flinging the door open wide. Illya Kuryakin, his partner of six months, stood on the doorstep, hand raised, poised to knock again. Napoleon pushed Illya aside to look around outside. Illya craned his neck trying to see what Napoleon was searching for. “What’s wrong?”
Napoleon shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. “Nothing. Just got carried away with the season.” He scowled at Illya. “I thought you were going to wait in the car?”
“No, you told me to wait in the car. I decided otherwise. I was bored.”
Napoleon gestured him in and waved a hand at Izzy. “Izzy, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. Illya, Isabella Conti. She likes to be called Izzy.”
Illya gave a small bow. “Pleased to meet you, Izzy. I like to be called Illya.”
“Hi, Illya.” Izzy cocked her head curiously. “Wait, I locked the gate. How did you get in?”
“Rubber soles,”Illya said, gesturing at his sneakers, as if that explained everything.
“A wall is no deterrent for Illya,” Napoleon explained. “He can climb anything. He’s like a cat.”
As if he’d heard the reference, Charlie trotted over and rubbed against Illya’s legs until he bent down and picked the cat up. He scratched the cat under the chin setting off a loud, rumbling purr. “Hello, puss.”
“His name’s Charlie,” Napoleon supplied. “He hissed at me. How come he treats you like an old friend?”
Illya smirked as Izzy said, “Animals are sensitive to people, especially cats. Charlie can sense something in you, Illya.”
Napoleon pulled a sour face. “Probably that tuna sandwich you had for lunch.”
Izzy was staring at Illya, a puzzled frown on her face. “I feel we’ve met before, but I can’t remember where.”
Illya shook his head. “We’ve never met, I can assure you. I have perfect recall. Perhaps I have one of those faces.”
“Perhaps.” But she looked doubtful.
“Maybe you met in a previous life?” Napoleon offered, glibly.
“No, it’s not that…” she replied, seriously. Still watching Illya, she tore the sheet of notes off the writing pad and handed it to Napoleon. “Here. I hope it helps.”
Napoleon took it with a smile. “Thanks, Izzy.” He tapped his partner on the shoulder. “We should get going. Izzy’s given me a few leads. The sooner we start the sooner we can finish this affair.” He passed the piece of paper to Illya, who took it as he passed the cat to Izzy.
With the cat in her arms, Izzy followed them down the path and unlocked the gate.
“Thank you for your assistance, Miss Conti.” Illya gave her a courtly bow and turned to Napoleon, waving the paper in the air. “We can take a location each.” He started to move away but stopped when Napoleon hesitated behind him. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll catch you up.”
He turned back towards Izzy, intending to thank her for her help, but Izzy was staring at Illya with a strange intensity as he walked away. Feeling a little protective of his partner at her overt interest, he cleared his throat and said, “Don’t waste your time. In the six months I’ve worked with him I’ve never seen him take an interest in any woman.”
She returned her scrutiny back to him, her expression thoughtful. “I wasn’t thinking about me.”
“Hm?”
“Fair skin, blue eyes, blond hair.” She smiled and said, pointedly, “Very large hands.”
Napoleon took a second to digest her implication. “Now wait a minute—“
“Just saying.”
“Well, as my grand-pappy would say, that’s just crazy talk. For the record, I’m not…” He waved a hand around. “I like women.”
“I know. But love isn’t always where you expect to find it. And he’s very attractive,” she added with a wink.
Napoleon shook his head and chuckled. “I’d better go before you have us picking out china together.” He shook her hand. “Thanks again for all your help. If we find your brother, I’ll ask him to contact you.”
He gave her a backwards glance as he hurried down the path in the direction his partner had gone.
Illya, indeed. Ridiculous. Izzy’s clairvoyance had been wrong, this time. Sure, they sometimes spent their free time together if Napoleon didn’t have a date, but that was all. He liked Illya, but not in that way. Illya was the best partner he’d ever had; they’d clicked almost from the start, developing an uncanny sense of each other in the field, each knowing what the other would do, what they would think. He was trustworthy, steadfast and a bottomless pit of useful information. Plus, he had a wicked sense of humor, once you got to know him. Illya was comfortable and uncomplicated to be with, and they had a close working relationship. But not too close.
He shook his head, trying to dispel Izzy’s unsettling insinuation.
Up ahead, he noticed Illya blithely walk beneath a ladder propped against the wall. He slowed his pace as he neared the ladder, intending to side step it, but he thought about Izzy’s words, about his superstitions being toxic. After a moment’s pause, Napoleon followed Illya’s lead and quickly walked beneath the ladder, holding his breath as he did. He stopped on the other side and looked back. The sky hadn’t fallen on his head, nor had the ground opened up and swallowed him. Oddly, he felt strangely liberated.
He turned back to watch his partner and stepped up his pace to catch up. Illya had already reached the car and was settled in the driver’s seat. He had the engine started before Napoleon slid in beside him, and pulled away from the sidewalk before Napoleon had managed to close the door.
With a new awareness of his partner, Napoleon watched him out of the corner of his eye, the way his strong fingers slid confidently around the steering wheel, driving a little too fast for Napoleon’s taste, but still sure and confident. He’d given up asking Illya to slow down in the car; his earlier attempts had been met with a frosty glare. Besides, Illya’s love of speed had helped them outpace many a pursuer; a distinct advantage in their business. Both men were still feeling their way around this imposed partnership and each of them had learned in the last few months that their relationship worked best with a little give and take.
This man had so many facets and Napoleon was slowly enjoying each one he uncovered. He looked at Illya, who looked back at him with a grin. He had a nice smile, Napoleon thought, a smile that brightened his normally solemn face. He liked to see Illya smile.
What am I thinking? He shook his head, annoyed that Izzy’s words had gotten to him.
Illya took a hand from the steering wheel to turn on the radio, fiddling with the tuner till he found a station he liked. Napoleon wagged a finger at the windscreen. “Keep your eyes on the road, Rasputin. I’d like to get home in one piece.”
On the radio, Etta James started to play. Illya’s baritone voice quietly sang along… At last my love has come along, My lonely days are over…
Napoleon’s breath caught as he felt the world tilt around him. He reached down and quickly switched the radio off with a snap.
THE END