Epilogue

St. Patrick Cemetery, New Orleans

Napoleon Solo, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, stood at the entrance to the cemetery and waited. The left sleeve of the jacket was a little snug, thanks to the bandage on his knife wound. It only hurt when he made certain movements. The bump that was evidence of his head injury was almost nonexistent.

The agent deeply breathed in the fresh air. Even in the blasted heat and humidity, it was good to be out of the New Orleans office, where he'd been in charge while most agents were in still Baton Rouge and Shreveport wrapping up those missions. He pushed his Foster Grant wrap-around sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose, victim of a light sheen of perspiration.

Several minutes later, a navy blue sedan pulled up, taking the last parking space—a rarity that there was one at all in this part of town.

Illya Kuryakin, grim-faced and garbed like his partner except for aviator-style sunglasses that hid most of the stippling, exited the vehicle. The cuffs of his shirt flapped open due to the thick wrist bandages. The dressings were gone from his head and cheek. He had even cut his hair to lend some symmetry to the temporary trim dictated by the bullet wound. He strode, in spite of the limp that telegraphed still-painful ankles and feet, to Napoleon. His only greeting, despite them having been separated for several days, was a somber nod. They walked side by side to the Bussiere family mausoleum.

They stood at parade rest, wilting in the smothering humidity of the Crescent City, seemingly not bothered by it, if they even noticed. Their silent attention was riveted on the stone plaque bearing the name of their friend and colleague.

After many minutes, Napoleon broke the quiescent tableau with a discreet throat-clearing. "Mr. Waverly said the requiem mass was very nice. Julie's family asked him to send us their thanks."

Illya, fresh from his release from the Baton Rouge HQ under 24/7 guard for a week of observation to make sure the effects of the drugs were gone, sighed. "I'm … pleased for Julie and his family that he was entombed on consecrated ground."

It was too close to you being buried, my friend, Napoleon thought. He shivered despite the heat.

Illya caught the incongruous flutter. He had been able to control his own physical reaction to the thought that Napoleon had come close to being killed in the arboretum and the ER. "Napoleon?" he asked softly.

"I … I was just thinking that we barely squeaked by on this one," he whispered as he fixed his gaze steadfastly on his best friend's eyes.

Illya, returning the look, heard the unspoken addendum, because he was thinking the same thing. I could not have borne it either had you not survived.

They stood there for a long moment, communicating without words in that uncommon way only extraordinary partners have.

Illya broke the nonverbal exchange. "Napoleon, do Catholics have a specific prayer for times such as this?"

"Not to my knowledge. How about we just say a little something."

Illya nodded. "You were a good friend and a good agent, Julie. You will be missed."

Napoleon felt his throat tighten at Illya's heartfelt words. He coughed so he could speak his own. "The world is a little more diminished without you in it, Jules Bussiere."

After a pause, Illya said, "These words don't seem to be enough, especially knowing firsthand what Julie went through." There but for the grace of Napoleon go I. He thought of the recently named syndrome, survivor's guilt. There was finally a name for the heaviness in his heart that he'd been accumulating since childhood. Julie's death added to that ever-growing guilt. If Napoleon died before him, it would be guilt beyond words, beyond coping.

Illya let go of that horrific, soul-damaging thought. He re-centered his thoughts on Julie. There had to be a better tribute to his fellow agent than a mere few words, but he couldn't think of one.

Napoleon sensed a spiritual vulnerability in his friend. Illya kept it well-hidden, only coming out for brief moments when something reminded him of his family or the war. Napoleon thought about what the three of them had in common, other than being UNCLE agents. A small U.S. Marine Corps emblem medallion, embedded in the plaque, gave him the answer.

"I agree, IK. You know, Julie was a Marine in Korea. Maybe some sort of military honor?"

Illya exhaled audibly, nodded once. They knew without words what they would do.

They put a little distance between them, then stood at attention and saluted their fellow agent, holding it for several seconds.

The friends began their stroll back to the car when Illya's rumbling stomach fractured the quiet of the cemetery. His neck crimsoned at Napoleon's amused smile.

"Didn't they feed you enough at Baton Rouge, tovarishch?"

"They did, with some … encouragement. However, I'm ready for second breakfast."

Napoleon checked his watch. "I think you've missed that. How about Elevenses?"

Illya smiled, closed-lip. Not many Americans were familiar with that late morning British light meal. But then again, there were no Americans like Napoleon Solo. "Coffee and chicory with beignets?"

"Café du Monde?"

"Is there another place?" asked Illya, not expecting an answer.

They continued on in silence, reaffirming their common vocation of protecting the world—and each other—from harm.

the end

copyright 2019

Thanks to CoriKay, beta extraordinaire, for her many spot-on suggestions. Also thanks to Mlaw for her help with the title of this story/affair.