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“Yes, Mother.” Napoleon twirled the phone cord around his index finger as he watched the second hand of the wall clock begin another rhythmic circuit. After a full twenty minutes, he was no longer absorbing more than one word in ten and he wondered, somewhat sarcastically, what his parents would think if they knew he used a standard torture resistance technique while pretending to listen to their one-sided diatribes. Focus on an object in the room; breathe slowly in and out; block everything else from your mind.
Over the past dozen years, his contact with his parents had dwindled into two annual performances. A phone call over the winter holidays — Christmas Eve unless he was prevented by something more pleasurable … like the aforementioned Thrush torture. Plus a weekend visit in the late Spring so his mother and father could complain to his face about his lack of accomplishments, fame, social prominence, and offspring.
“Yes, Mother,” he repeated, not exactly sure what he was agreeing to but not caring enough to argue. As the second hand passed twelve again, he cleared his throat and dared to interrupt. “It’s been wonderful speaking to you and Father, but I’m afraid I have to let you go. I have a meeting with an important client in a few minutes.”
The voice on the other end of the line rose another ten decibels.
“I understand, Mother, but many of our import/export clients are from Asian and African countries where Christmas isn’t uniformly celebrated.” How often over the past ten years had he repeated that particular lie? Not that it mattered. His parents absorbed even fewer of his words than he absorbed of theirs.
“Merry Christmas, Mother. Give Father a hug for me and have a lovely day tomorrow.” He finally set the handset back onto its base, closing his eyes and letting the welcome silence wash over him. His own Christmas wasn’t looking particularly bright and merry, but at least it he wouldn’t be spending it performing for an audience impossible to please.
Patting his hair where the phone receiver had mussed it, straightening his suit jacket, and shooting his cuffs, he prepared for the next obligatory portion of his Christmas Eve. Luckily he’d created an excuse to prevent having to linger at U.N.C.L.E.’s office party for longer than the requisite appearance. Although normally a social animal, he simply wasn’t in the right frame of mind to spend the next three or four hours joking, smiling and oozing charm and holiday cheer.
The gun metal gray hallways of New York headquarters were unusually tranquil as he made his way from his office to the ground floor of the building. Napoleon paused to take in the scene as he stepped from the elevator. The normally staid break room and canteen had been transformed by twinkling lights, festive garlands and sprigs of mistletoe. All but the most critical staff members were milling between tables of food and drinks or clustered in small groups, eating and chatting. The buzz of conversation almost drowned out the Christmas carol wafting from the overhead speakers. It most definitely was not a Silent Night in this tiny corner of New York City.
Stiffening his shoulders, Napoleon plunged ahead. He’d taken barely three steps into the crowd when one of the more intrepid ladies of the steno pool detached herself from a small flock of giggling females and swanned into his path.
“There you are, Napoleon,” she cooed. “We’ve all been wondering where you were hiding.” She slipped her arm through his, eying him coyly through thick, dark eyelashes and positioning herself close enough to provide an enticing view of her generous décolletage. “I’ve barely seen you in weeks. Maybe we should escape this crowd and find somewhere more … intimate … to celebrate the season.”
“As nearly irresistible as that sounds, my dear,” he said, gently disengaging his arm and placing a perfunctory kiss on her fingertips, “I’m afraid I’m on duty tonight.” He leaned down to whisper into her ear, forcing himself not to wrinkle his nose as he was engulfed by her cloying perfume. “In less than an hour, I’m going to be out on the cold streets of New York City … wishing I were someplace warmer and, ah, friendlier, I’m sure.”
Her lips formed a seductive pout, but her narrowed eyes said she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. That was partially his own fault. His dating habits had changed quite noticeably over the past year. Most of the females at UNCLE headquarters had come to the not unreasonable conclusion he was involved with someone outside the organization, but several of the boldest ladies weren’t willing to give up their resident lothario without a fight.
“Surely our Chief Enforcement Agent can rearrange the field schedule when something more pressing comes up.” She ran her hand down his chest and, daringly, a good bit lower.
“I’m afraid I only have a few minutes to make the rounds,” he said, stepping back out of range and infusing his tone with faux regret. “So you’ll have to excuse me.” He walked away without a backward glance.
He spent the next thirty minutes wandering the room, pausing here and there to chat with fellow employees while pretending to sip from a styrene cup of garishly colored punch. He was considering an exit strategy when April materialized at his side, smiling with a sympathy he wasn’t expecting in the midst of the increasingly boisterous festivities.
“You look like a little boy who’s expecting coal in his Christmas stocking,” she said, studying him with sisterly concern.
He smiled ruefully. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been there.” She nibbled the corner of a frosted snowman, her eyes drifting across the room to where Mark was holding court with a gaggle of secretaries under a sprig of mistletoe. “He drives me crazy sometimes, with his overprotectiveness and his bizarre British sense of humor, but when he was assigned to the Sydney office for eight weeks last summer, I went through withdrawl.”
“I barely noticed,” Napoleon said, although they both knew the words were only partially true. April had definitely not been her normal bubbly self during her partner’s absence, but she’d worked well with every agent temporarily assigned to her and completed several successful missions. Then again, Mark and April, as far as he could tell, were as close as a siblings, but not —.
“It wasn’t Christmas time, and you and Illya have been partners almost forever,” she interrupted his silent musing with a shrug of her slender shoulders. “The biggest problem with letting another person become your right hand is that it takes a lot of effort to learn to function without him.”
“Very true. And thanks for understanding,” Napoleon leaned in to place a platonic kiss on her cheek. He couldn’t add, of course, that it was even harder to function when your heart was on the opposite side of the globe. Illya was much more than just a brother or a random appendage.
“So when can we expect our favorite Russian back in our midst?”
Napoleon managed not to sigh. “The good news is that the Medical department in Tokyo reports his shoulder is fully healed and he’s ready to be released back to field duty.” He huffed out a breath, allowing a hint of frustration to show. “The bad news is that Mr Waverly decided — since Illya’s been working on their upgraded security program from the beginning — he should stick it out until they finish.”
“And how long will that be?”
Napoleon shrugged, wishing he knew. “Illya thinks they’re going to have the first phase up and running by New Year’s. He didn’t specify whether he meant ours or the Ukrainian one.”
April’s gaze drifted slowly around the crowded room, a room where females outnumbered males by at least two to one, given that at least half of the operatives from Sections Two and Three hadn’t arrived yet. Waverly didn’t accept a little thing like Christmas as an excuse for late paperwork. “It looks like you could have your choice of other company tonight.”
Napoleon shook out his cuff and glanced at his wristwatch. “Actually, I have to leave in a few minutes to deliver a package.”
April’s brows rose “You? On Christmas Eve? Don’t we have lower ranking elves who can handle courier duty on a holiday?”
Napoleon’s lips twitched in a self-deprecating smile that might have made a lesser woman swoon. “We do, but the drop site is only a short distance from my apartment building, so why take someone else away from all this?” He waved a hand at the sugary treats piled on the nearest table.
April laughed softly, immune to the famous Solo charm by now. “Better you than me,” she said lightly. “Last time I volunteered for a milk run, I ended up stumbling into a Thrush plot that turned into a major offensive for half of Section Two.” Then she ganced down at her own watch and grinned. “And speaking of dangerous missions, I promised Mark I’d extricate him from his fan club … five minutes ago.”
“He’s not hoping to ring in Christmas morning with one of his lovely admirers?” Napoleon teased.
April rolled her eyes. “And get roped into being introduced to her parents on Christmas Day? Section Two men are experts in evading commitments.“ She peered at him speculatively from under lowered lashes before adding “At least most of you are.”
The party was just getting into full swing when Napoleon slipped out of headquarters through the Masque Club. Although the distance to Grand Central Station was barely more than a mile, and an invigorating walk would do him good, he’d arranged for a pre-screened cab to pick him up outside the club. There was no point in taking unnecessary risks at a time when the city sidewalks would be teeming with last minute shoppers, making it nearly impossible to be alert to every potential sign of danger.
As he’d anticipated, he could have walked to the drop point faster, given the holiday traffic and crowds. Still, he gave the cabbie a healthy tip along with a cheerful “Merry Christmas.” Unlike his passenger, the man would likely be working until the wee hours of the morning.
After making his way through the packed station and finding an appropriate vantage point, spent ten minutes watching trains pick up and disgorge holiday travelers, perking up and then sagging a few times when he glimpsed a mop of blond hair among the arriving and departing passengers. Which was ridiculous, of course. His partner was over six thousand miles away in Japan, not in Jersey or points north. If he wanted to fantasize the Russian appearing unexpectedly to brighten his Christmas, he should be at the airport.
The drop itself took less than three minutes. His contact, exactly as described in the briefing materials right down to his scruffy white beard and poinsetta embroidered muffler, exited the number four train, scanned the crowd, and strolled confidently up to him. They exchanged passwords and countersigns, Napoleon handed him a plain manila envelope, and he melted back into the crowd.
From there, Napoleon took a meandering walk through the city streets, enjoying the anonymity of being surrounded by but totally separate from the throngs of last minute Christmas shoppers. The overall mood was jolly: people laughed; carolers belted out exuberant — if not always melodious — versions of “Joy to the World” and “Silver Bells;” red suited santas wished everyone who passed a Merry Christmas. Even the weather cooperated, at least temporarily. The thick clouds and sharp chill in the air portended a possible Christmas Eve snowfall, but the storm was holding off just long enough to allow this last minute burst of capitalism.
After forty-five minutes of wandering aimlessly through the holiday crowds, stopping here and there to enjoy the window displays, Napoleon finally rounded the corner onto his own street. The bright store fronts, gaudy decorations, and unrelenting noise of the shopping district gave way to the more tasteful sight of the silver garlands and shimmering blue stars that decorated the trees of Central Park and the distant jingle of sleigh bells. His day long melancholy almost transmuted into a sense of peace … and he thought he might be supremely content with life if not for one major void in an otherwise untroubled night.
The first fat flakes of the incoming storm were falling as Napoleon finally reached home. He trudged through the outer door and took the elevator to the top floor of the building more fatigued than he had any right to feel after a day spent pushing paper. He tossed his slightly damp overcoat across a chair to dry and swiped his fingers down his trouser legs. Then he plugged in the strings of multi-colored bubble lights decorating his Christmas tree while pointedly ignoring the flashing red beacon of his answering machine. Anyone needing him for a work related emergency would call his communicator, and he had no intention of spending his evening exchanging light hearted inanities with casual acquaintances and distant family members. If he wanted to mope, by god he was entitled to mope.
Wandering to the bar, he poured himself a generous measure of triple malt scotch. After thumbing listlessly through his collection of Christmas albums, he pulled out one of Illya’s favorites and set it on the stereo. The soft jazz of the Ramsey Lewis Trio’s “The Sound of Christmas,” a poignant combination of piano and strings, was light years away from the religious music of his stiff Catholic childhood. Tonight, though, it was perfect.
Swaying slightly to the rhythm of the keys, he strolled into the kitchen and gave a desultory look through the contents of his refrigerator but couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to cook. Instead, he grabbed a bag of chips and his scotch and returned to the living room. He’d started a fire, settled onto the couch and was toeing off his shoes when there was a sharp rap on the door.
A low growl escaped his throat. He couldn’t imagine who would come calling at nearly 8 pm on Christmas Eve, but it had to be a person with a death wish. Jerking himself upright, and plucking his Walther from the coffee table, he stomped to the door almost hoping the intruder would be a Thrush goon. It might relieve a little of his ennui to shoot someone.
When he peered through the peephole, though, his heart leaped into his throat. Tossing the handgun onto a side table, he jabbed the buttons on the security panel, fumbled the locks and threw open the door. The next moment he engulfed his visitor in a bear hug. After no more rhan a fraction of a second’s hesitation, he was gifted with a return hug almost strong enough to crack a rib.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked, pulling back slightly to look into blue eyes that twinkled more brightly than the Christmas lights.
“I thought Mr Waverly would let you know.” Illya canted his head briefly then glanced behind himself into the empty hallway before placing a quick, chaste kiss on Napoleon’s lips. “Besides which, I thought it likely that you had some influence over the sudden decision that my presence was unnecessary for the last test runs of the security system before final implementation.”
“You still could have called,” Napoleon said, trying and failing to sound disgruntled by his partner’s unexpected appearance.
“I was only informed forty-five minutes before my flight left Tokyo. I had barely enough time to pack my suitcase and get to the airport, and I didn’t want to risk missing the plane.”
Illya reached down to retrieve his battered suitcase and a large brown paper bag, then he gently maneuvered Napoleon backwards through the doorway and closed it firmly behind them. The familiar scent of Chinese take-out wafted around them as the Russian turned automatically to reset the security system
“I did leave a message on your answering machine from Los Angeles as I was changing planes,” Illya added, glancing pointedly across the living room to the still blinking machine. “And I left another after I landed in New York to let you know I would pick up a late dinner on the way here.”
“I just got in a few minutes ago,” Napoleon said, not quite truthfully. He followed Illya’s gaze to the persistent red light and grinned. Then, unable to stop himself, he pulled the Russian into another hug and buried his face in the soft blond hair. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
‘“I’m your Christmas wish come true?” Illya teased with a low chuckle, wrapping his arms back around the dark haired agent and seeming content to stay in that position for as long as Napoleon chose.
“Maybe I was craving Chinese food,” Napoleon said archly, forcing himself to take a step back when every cell of his body was screaming to stay as close as humanly possible.
“Well then let’s eat,” Illya said, picking up the bag of food and heading to the kitchen. “Afterward, we’ll sit under the tree to unwrap the rest of the presents, and we’ll see which you enjoy the most.”
There could be only one answer to that question.
It was going to be a joyous Christmas after all.