ChapterFive


Shado sighed heavily as she brushed her hair. She really dreaded this conference. These things were tedious at best and at their worst incredibly boring. Making nice with the executives in the publishing industry had never been her favorite thing, even less so in the past year. I t had gotten especially more difficult to put them off since her last novel did so well. They were pushing her for public appearances, book tours, autograph sessions, things that would threaten the safety of those she sought to protect. She laid the hair brush on the small vanity in the dressing room and slowly gathered her hair into a ponytail, securing it with a hair tie, then moved further into the suite of rooms provided. She stood by the window gazing out at a city that she had never really wanted to see again. It had been so long since she had been in New York, but this was one conference that she couldn’t get out of attending, not if she wanted to keep her publisher. Her eyes sought out the familiar landscape of downtown, tracing the streets that would lead to a certain place. A dark memory threatened her for a moment and she pulled her eyes away from the streets to focus instead on the lights of the distant planes vying for rights in the holding patterns above the city. Muttering a curse under her breath she opened the small jewel case that she carried with her and pulled a platinum band from its interior. Still muttering under her breath she slid the band over the ponytail and holder, the thickness of her hair holding it secure. For a moment she closed her eyes against the pain the coolness of the band brought her, her mind providing the sight of the single word engraved on the band… НАВСЕГДА. “Forever.” She whispered as she finished dressing for the reception that was gearing up below. “Right.” She looked once more around her room before closing the door on it’s barrenness. “I really hate New York.”


Across town.

Napoleon leaned back against the settee and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t be leaving his office until the jet entered UNCLE airspace, then he would take the limo to the airport to meet his long time partner. He brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, refusing to admit the wetness there was from tears. Could it be possible after all this time? Could their search be over at last? Hope flared briefly, clutched tightly in the iron control that had stood him so well in the past. He closed his eyes and like Illya safe in the jet, allowed the memories to sweep him to a time when things had been so… different….

1967.

It had been a scorcher of a day. The heat came off the streets in visible waves, sweat ran no matter what you did to prevent it. In neighborhoods, kids played in the forbidden spray of fire hydrants, opened by teens as a way of mischief. Walking from the taxi to the front door of Del Floria’s had left them both drenched and longing for the air conditioned halls ahead in UNCLE HQ. Even Illya had complained with a soft, “Bozhe moi” under his breath. The interior of the shop was marginally better but they had both quickened their steps into the passage way, the promise of cooler air one they couldn’t resist.

Mitzi the receptionist greeted them both with a cheery hello and the dreaded words. “Mr. Waverly wants to see both of you in his office.”

Illya muttered something under his breath, too low for any one to understand but the set of his shoulders as they headed down the hall let Napoleon guess what his partner had said. Several people greeted them as they walked through the hallway, but none seemed willing to detain them for chatter. Outside Mr. Waverly’s office his secretary waved them into the office with no comment. It was obvious that something was going on.

“Gentlemen, please take a seat.” Mr. Waverly didn’t even look up from the file he was reading upon their entry. They shared a look then taking their customary positions waited for him to continue. He ignored them for a few minutes then closing the folder, he laid it on his desk. He fiddled with his pipe for a moment, deep in thought. When he finally spoke it was in an off hand manner that took them both by surprise. “Deucedly hot lately.”

Napoleon stared at his superior for a moment. “Yes, yes it has been.” He sent a concerned look to Illya and shifted in his seat uneasily. Illya returned his look with one of cool detachment.

“Would you say it’s been unseasonably hot?” Waverly continued. He appeared to be following a train of thought completely obscure to them.

“No more than usual sir.” Napoleon ventured.

“What?” Waverly seemed to start in his chair as if realizing that he had been speaking. He looked at them for a moment, his beetle brows pulled into a scowl. Then he waved a hand in dismissal. “A situation has come to my attention. One that I think that bears further investigation.” He picked up the file he had been reading and tossed it onto the circular table. A flick of his wrist sent the file into motion until Illya stopped it. “Before you gentlemen read what’s in that file, there are a few things that you must be made aware of. Things that require more than your usual discretion.” He paused for a moment toying with the pipe, then reaching a decision he struck a match and set the tobacco alight. He puffed thoughtfully on it for a few long moments then humpfed to himself. “Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin what I am about to relate to you goes no further than this room. It will not be spoken of again, nor will it ever be put into any report. Once you leave this office, this conversation will never have taken place, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Waverly stared for another moment at the smoke curling to the ceiling then he cast his eyes downward to the desk in front of him. “What I am about to relate to you is something of a personal nature. Something that happened a quarter of a century ago during the war, An—indiscretion on my part. One that has had far reaching consequences. You are both aware of course of my involvement during the war?” at their nods he continued. “During my time with the underground in Paris, I became, for wont of a better term, intimate with a young lady also involved with the French Resistance. Unfortunately at the time, we were both married, my wife was in the United States and her husband was fighting in Africa. Her name was Gillian St. John. Gillian was,” his voice trailed off for a moment as he smiled at a memory. “well Gillian was something else. She could hold her own against just about anything the Nazis could throw our way. We had six months together, six months of stolen moments. Mind you, I love my wife, but…” he shifted uncomfortable for a moment. “things were different then. Much different. I lost track of Gillian when the cell that she was working with moved further into the interior in late summer. I was sent away from Paris shortly thereafter, to do what I could in London. I didn’t see or hear from Gillian again.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his desk and held it for a moment. “I received this letter in 1953. It was written by a Sister Mary Catherine of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital.” He slid the letter to Napoleon and gestured for him to pick it up. “Read it out loud Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon scooped the letter up and opened it, scanning the first lines quickly. “Mr. Waverly, I undertake this task with the heaviest of hearts. It is with my deepest sympathy that I must inform you of the passing of Gillian St. John. She passed into the care of Our Lord quietly and with dignity in her sleep on Wednesday October 10. She had been ill for some time and her passing was a blessed relief from her travails. I must confess that I have undertaken the task of informing you of her passing against her wishes. She did not wish to burden you with her illness but she spoke of you most often. “

“I do not know the circumstances of your relationship with Mrs. St. John only that she spoke highly of you and with the greatest affection. Sir, you were the only person of whom she would speak, thus it is my hope that you might know something of her family or any relative that we may contact. You see, Mr. Waverly, Mrs. St. John left her eight year old daughter in our care…” Napoleon’s voice trailed off.



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