Sub Rosa

Secrets are things we give to others to keep for us.

— Elbert Hubbard.

December, 1968.

Napoleon Solo was drunk. Not falling down drunk or even tipsy drunk. Just feeling-good drunk, maybe "somebody-else-better-drive" drunk.

But for a field agent, being a little drunk was like being a little pregnant: the degree mattered less than simply the fact that you were. And Solo was chief of Section II, so that fact mattered a lot.

On the other hand, it was also late afternoon of Christmas Eve and he was attending the annual HQ party in the commissary, behind steel walls so thick and strong they could withstand a 1.5 megaton blast. So, as long as he sobered up before he hit a public street and Waverly didn't bother to make yet another appearance at the party, he was probably safe.

At the moment, Solo was playing bartender and utilizing a motley collection of liquor bottles to demonstrate to April Dancer and Mark Slate how to build the perfect vodka martini. He lectured as he began to assemble the necessary ingredients.

"You put five ice cubes in the shaker..." The only shaker available was one used to make milkshakes so he was improvising.

"Five?" Dancer asked.

"Well, you can go to six but no more. And then you add just a small pinch of salt, maybe 40 grains —" Solo tipped a glass shaker into the palm of his hand and measured out the salt.

"Sounds like you need a math degree for this."

"Shhh, luv," Slate admonished, giving his partner a gentle nudge. "Don't mind her, Napoleon. Go on." He was interested in this private lesson being conducted, of all places, on the far corner of the lunchroom counter. Solo was well known for his martinis.

"Then you add a bit of lemon peel —" Solo took a steak knife to a lemon quarter left over from making the punch.

"Or an onion," Slate added.

"Two Bick's Pickled Holland Style Onions to be precise, but we don't have those so we'll go with the lemon peel. Then pour in the vodka —" Solo rummaged around for a suitable container to measure the liquor and finally found a lone shot glass.

"How much?" Slate wanted to know.

"Some people use two ounces; I prefer one and a half. Then you add just a few drops, maybe two or three, of dry white vermouth."

"Isn't that too little?" Dancer asked. She'd read recipes that prescribed a more liberal ratio of vermouth.

"That's when you're working with gin. Besides, I like it very dry."

Slate chuckled at the understatement. "If Napoleon had his way, he'd spray the vermouth from an atomizer."

"Now, you shake it," Solo said, taking the steel cylinder in hand and covering it with an upended tumbler.

"Ah, shaken not stirred!" Dancer exclaimed, smiling with satisfaction. Finally, something that sounded familiar.

"Why not stirred?" Slate asked. He had little taste for cocktails himself and much preferred a pint of the best at the Cedar Tavern. Still, knowing how to mix a proper martini could be socially useful.

"Well, the shaking breaks up the ice and makes the martini colder —"

"The colder the better?" Dancer guessed.

"Exactly. It also redistributes the vermouth more evenly." Solo leaned close as if confiding a secret. "And Illya tells me that shaking releases more antioxidants."

"What are those?" Dancer asked, pulling back, genuinely perplexed.

"Hell if I know," Solo laughed. "But, apparently martinis are actually good for you and shaking makes them better."

"Oh, so this is a health drink," Slate cracked, deeply amused. Leave it to Illya to find a scientific, rational reason to drink a martini.

"Best medicine in the world," Solo agreed as he poured the mixture into the one martini glass available, the one he'd brought with him. Offering a quick toast, he said "Na zaftra" automatically, then leaned in to sample the results. As he sipped, the expression on his face turned unexpectedly sour.

"What's the matter?" Dancer asked.

Still frowning, Solo reached for the vodka bottle, spun it around and read the label: Schmirnoff. "Where's the good stuff?" he asked.

"I think your partner drank it all," Slate chuckled. Locating the single bottle of Stolichnaya, he shook it to demonstrate it was empty.

Solo sighed. "Well, I can't be expected to make great art here with commonplace materials." He looked around, scanning the commissary's milling crowds. "Where has our dear tovarishch gone off to, anyway?"

"He ducked out earlier," Dancer said.

"No doubt after the Stoli ran out," Slate added.

Solo didn't seem particularly surprised. "He probably went home to change his clothes. We're going out to dinner tonight."

"At 21 again?" Dancer asked. For Solo, tracking down the best, most expensive Christmas Eve dinner possible was more than a tradition; it was a ritual, one he inevitably shared with his partner.

"No, this year, I've reserved a table at the Russian Tea Room — a little surprise. It's been a tough month and I thought a nice bowl of borsch and a bit of home cooking would improve his mood. Want to come along?"

Dancer shook her head regretfully. "Sorry. I'm driving north to the relatives as usual. They expect me."

"And you Mark?"

"Going with her, riding shotgun. She'll need back-up."

"Back-up?" Solo asked. "With the family? Is that really necessary?"

"You haven't met my sisters-in-law," Dancer said, rolling her eyes.

Solo chuckled. "Maybe I should." He circled from behind the lunchroom counter. "Well, I'm going in search of some decent vodka. I'll return shortly to complete the lesson, never fear. All will be revealed."

"Off to the wine shop?" Slate asked, to which Solo smiled and lowered his voice. "No. Illya's office."

A visitor had once described U.N.C.L.E.'s New York HQ as a "chrome and gunmetal madhouse," but to Napoleon Solo, the complex was the sanest place on earth. Here, everything made sense. All the world's secrets were stored here, everything about the current state of human affairs that could reasonably be known was known. Even the doors whispered.

Still a little wobbly, he made his way through steel-walled corridors, now silent and devoid of the usual activity. Only the overhead security sensors throbbed with life like an actual pulse.

Arriving on the second floor, he found Kuryakin's office as easily as his own, despite the fact that all the doors were unmarked and glided on their tracks, silvery-smooth as mercury.

The office was locked, but as head of Section II, Solo knew the security code to every entrance and exit in the building. He tapped the keypad and once inside, wasted no time sliding behind the perfectly ordered desk. Only a clean blotter, a small calendar and a cup containing three pens and two sharpened pencils were in evidence. The day's paperwork had all been completed and filed away.

Solo leaned down to open the large bottom drawer. This was locked, too, of course, but once again, Solo had a master key. The rolling drawer revealed a row of thick, well thumbed folders neatly filed in the front compartment. Solo reached past them, burying a hand into the space beyond, to fish out the vodka bottle he knew was always there.

Expecting to grasp glass, his fingers closed around something that felt like leather instead. Intrigued and surprised, Solo drew it out to see what it was.

And found himself staring at a small, fat book. Leather bound, the book's front and back covers bore an intricate, hand-tooled design.

"What are you doing?" asked a familiar voice as the swish of a door sliding aside broke the silence.

Caught. Solo thought. Well, there was no help for it. He didn't even bother with an excuse, but simply told the truth.

"I was looking to borrow a small cup of vodka, actually. You know, the good stuff. Mark and April wanted to know how to mix a decent mar-ti-ni —" The word slurred and Solo looked up sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm a little drunk."

"You must be, to take such liberties with my desk," Kuryakin agreed. He was joking, but not completely.

But Solo didn't register the hint of annoyance in his partner's tone because besides being a little fuzzy, there was also something else occupying his mind. And that something was the book, which he still held, suspended, in mid-air.

"Ah — what's this?" Solo asked casually, although they both knew it was not a casual question.

Now, it was Kuryakin's turn to be embarrassed and he was, though he kept his expression neutral. Nevertheless, a telltale sigh escaped through his teeth.

"It's a journal. My journal."

"You mean, like a diary?"

Reluctantly, Kuryakin nodded, fully aware of the security concerns his admission immediately raised. Those who worked in Intelligence didn't keep diaries. Anything could be used against an agent, even last week's grocery list.

And now, the moment was becoming awkward between them because although Solo might be Kuryakin's best friend and partner, he was also the Russian agent's superior.

"Why?" Solo asked, perplexed, and that one word said it all. Aside from the risk, Solo couldn't imagine finding the time and the discipline to write a journal himself. He was lucky to meet the deadlines on his own mission reports.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Kuryakin looked away. "I know it sounds foolish, but sometimes, I need to think through questions, concerns — sort things out. Writing it down helps."

"But weren't you afraid it would fall into the wrong hands?"

"Well, I would like to say I've been very careful," Kuryakin observed ruefully, "but obviously, not careful enough."

"How long have you been keeping it?"

"Since the first night of survival school."

Solo blinked. As he tried to work past his own astonishment and make sense of the situation, his gaze dropped back to the journal. Slowly, it began to sink in just exactly what he was holding in his hand.

"Am I in here?" Solo asked softly.

"Of course."

"And everything else?"

"Mostly." Kuryakin noted the spark of curiosity in his partner's eyes. "You may read it if you wish, I won't wrest it from you. But I'd prefer if you didn't."

Solo considered. He began to think out aloud. "You've been writing down everything, everything that's happened, everything we've done for the past eight years, and I never knew."

"Don't feel too badly," Kuryakin said, his mouth quirking into a smile in spite of himself. "I am rather good at keeping secrets."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because then you would have wanted to read it. You might have resisted for a time, but it would have been too great a temptation. You know that's true, Napoleon. And eventually, I would have relented. And I wouldn't have been able to write honestly and usefully knowing I might someday have an audience."

Solo tipped his chin, wordlessly conceding the point. But still —

It was all here within his grasp. Illya's thoughts, hopes, fears, maybe even his dreams — his entire life as an agent. Their lives for the past eight years, probably everything they'd ever done together. But even more than that, here was a kind of Rosetta Stone, the key to the code that was his enigmatic partner. All he had to do was flip open the cover and read it.

Illya was right, of course: it was a great temptation. But he was wrong, too. Solo found he could resist and he didn't need more than a second or two to make his decision. "Here," he said, handing the book back.

"Thank you," Kuryakin replied, taking it. "I suppose now I should set a match to it."

"Do what you think is best." Solo reached down and slammed the desk drawer with a deliberate finality. "As far as I'm concerned, I never saw it. It doesn't exist. It never did."

"I appreciate that," Kuryakin said. "Truly."

"Hey— " Solo shrugged easily, his smile returning. "Are you kidding? Considering all the secrets of mine you've kept over the years, it's the least I can do."

Pushing back the office chair, he rose, preparing to leave.

"Right hand drawer," Kuryakin said, gesturing.

Solo frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"The vodka you were looking for. It's in the right hand drawer, not the left." Moving past his partner, Kuryakin angled around and opened the drawer himself.

"You moved it."

Kuryakin chuckled. "No. You were looking in the wrong drawer."

"I'm drunker than I thought," Solo laughed.

"Apparently." Kuryakin brought out a bottle, long and slim, with the tip covered with paraffin.

At the sight of the paraffin, Solo whistled. "Whoa. That is the good stuff."

"Well, it is Christmas, isn't it?" Kuryakin passed him the bottle. "Happy Christmas, my friend."

Solo hefted the unopened bottle in an impromptu salute. "To secrets."

"Indeed. The ones we share and the ones we don't, and the ones we keep for each other."

"Amen," Solo said.

Somewhere in Manhattan. Another Christmas Eve, many years later.

She thought she would never miss all the holiday psychodrama that had occurred throughout her youth and beyond — all the drinking, the mood swings, the unexplained depression, the mysterious secrets. And truth be told, she didn't. But still, she missed him, and she would gladly have endured it all yet again if she could have had her father for this Christmas, too. But he was gone and she felt his absence deeply and profoundly.

To make matters worse, David had been called away on a last minute assignment, marooning her without even a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

So now, Allyson Solo sat in her well-appointed co-op apartment alone, surrounded by a hastily decorated tree and a pile of store-wrapped presents, with only a glass of sherry and Alistair Sim on the TV for company.

She sighed, listlessly watching the black and white images march past, so familiar, she could recite the dialogue by heart. Such was the life of an U.N.C.L.E. field agent — make that two field agents, she corrected herself. The job certainly took its toll, but never quite so heavily as around the holidays. But then, she had no one to blame but herself.

Because her father had warned her, all right — describing, explaining, reminiscing, over and over again — and yet, paradoxically, there were some things, important things, essential things, he'd never mentioned at all. So many questions remained, questions that, over the years, she didn't, couldn't, or — for whatever reason — wouldn't ask and now the opportunity was lost forever.

Like father, like daughter, Allyson thought ruefully, scolding herself for her own bleak mood while suspecting that she was probably like him in even more ways than she realized.

Abruptly, her cell phone played the opening phrase of Jingle Bells, and Allyson slipped it from her jeans pocket, checked the caller I.D., and knew it was David. For a variety of reasons, her husband preferred using the cell to an U.N.C.L.E. channel for personal business.

"Mission accomplished," he announced cheerily. He hadn't been able to share the details and she'd known better than to ask. Now that the affair was over, however, she'd probably hear all about it the next time they were in bed.

"Where are you?"

"Tokyo. Just finishing up the paperwork. They're going to make room for me on the supply shuttle, so I should be home by tomorrow night the latest."

"Great." She managed to muster up the appropriate enthusiasm, but he knew her too well to be fooled.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Really. Don't worry. Just come home in one piece."

"No opening your presents until I get there," he warned her, teasing.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Uh-huh." His tone was dubious. "Okay. Gotta run. Love ya."

"Love ya." She started to add a "Merry Christmas," but he was gone before she finished, and she ended up saying the words to the empty room. With another deep sigh, she pocketed her cell phone and turned back to Alistair Sim. But just as Scrooge was making the acquaintance of Christmas Past yet again, her intercom buzzed, demanding attention. It was Charlie, the night doorman, telling her that a package had just arrived at the desk with her name on it.

"A package?" U.N.C.L.E. agents did not appreciate unannounced packages.

"Yeah. A Fed Ex guy delivered it." Charlie was clued in on his tenants' occupations and knew the drill. "You'd better come down and take a look."

"Be right there."

She left the apartment, equipped with both a bomb and frequency detector, but a careful inspection under Charlie's nervous gaze turned up nothing suspicious. Apparently, the Federal Express box was exactly what it appeared to be.

Hefting the package and tucking it under one arm, Allyson noted its considerable weight. On the elevator ride up, she read the return address —Tahiti — and realized it had come an awfully long way.

Curious, she couldn't wait to get back to her living room. She turned off the TV and made one more inspection before slicing through the sealing tape with a kitchen knife.

Inside, she found a stack of old, mostly leather-bound books and a letter. The handwriting was instantly recognizable. These days, they mostly communicated over email, but she'd read enough notes and old U.N.C.L.E. reports in that same angular, economically spaced script to know who wrote it:

Illya.

I hope this letter finds you in reasonably good spirits, he began, although I realize that might be just too much to ask at the moment. I know this will be a hard season for you, in a hard year. Don't ever feel you are acting weak or foolish. Mourning is necessary and natural. I can empathize. I miss him too.

Allyson smiled. Leave it to Illya to cut to the chase. He went on:

I have been thinking of you a great deal lately, and pondering some of the concerns and questions you've raised in our recent email exchanges. I wish I could give you more definitive answers, but I'm afraid the folklore about being older and wiser is simply that.

Nevertheless, in an effort to be of some help and perhaps assuage some of the emptiness you must be feeling, I have decided to make you this gift. When you browse these journals, you will understand why I sent them by a route other than standard U.N.C.L.E. courier.

I sincerely doubt you will find any wisdom contained between their covers, but sometimes, there is comfort in knowing that others have traveled the same road and made the same difficult journey. Your father is in these pages, Al, as well as myself, and perhaps here you will discover what couldn't be communicated in any other manner.

Many years ago, Napoleon worried that these might fall into the wrong hands. I shared his concern, and almost destroyed them. But in the end, I didn't, and for that I am glad. I can't think of better hands to place them in than yours.

As for myself, considering what I've learned in hindsight, the only sage advice of any value that I can offer is this: appreciate those for whom you care, and those who care for you. Keep them close. Friendship is like the air we breathe: so easily taken for granted. It sustains us, keeps us alive, but we really only notice when it's gone, and its loss leaves us gasping.

The letter closed with the usual best wishes for the season, promising in a postscript, We'll talk again after the New Year.

Allyson read the letter over a second time to fully absorb its contents. When she'd first meet Kuryakin, she couldn't imagine how he and her father could possibly have been such good friends for so long. They seemed so completely different. Now, years later, she understood. For someone so reserved, so reticent, the Russian certainly knew what to say when it mattered.

Setting the letter aside, Allyson knelt down on the rug beside the opened box and rummaged through books inside. There were at least two dozen of them, give or take a few. She picked out one of the leather-bound ones and ran her finger along the spine. For all its thickness, the journal had a delicacy about it. The covers were artfully hand tooled and the front cover bore the design of a flower, a rose.

Allyson chuckled to herself as she got the visual joke: "sub rosa," under the rose, the classic symbol for confidentiality. Flipping through the pages, she found a Christmas entry:

24 December 1968.

... As I write this, Napoleon is still at the party, entertaining the other field agents. Of course, they expect it of him and so he must oblige.

Allyson's breath caught as a wave of emotion swept through her, so strong and visceral, that several moments passed before she remembered to breathe again.

Naturally, he's also left behind some paperwork, and as usual, it has fallen to me. But tonight, I don't mind. I'll consider it a Christmas gift to him. It's the least I can do. After all, he's made reservations for us at the Russian Tea Room for dinner. He thinks it will be a surprise, but little does he realize that I, too, have my sources in the secretarial pool...

Allyson laughed softly even as her eyes began to glaze. Roughly, she swiped an errant tear away before it escaped, and steeled herself to dig deeper into the box, searching out the oldest of the journals. The one she found at the very bottom was cloth covered and inside, all the entries were in Russian. Translating, she read:

15 June, 1955

...Mr. Cutter strongly recommends that I make an effort to fit in, but he does not offer any advice on how this is to be accomplished. The other students avoid me. They know such behavior is not acceptable. They know the rules. They know that we must all leave our politics behind, but still, they do it. I do not blame them. I am different and when they fail to notice the difference, the accent reminds them. The instructors urge me to make friends, but there are none to be made. I fear my superiors have made a grave error in choosing me for this assignment. I fear I will never find a proper place in this organization...

Allyson closed the book and opened another. And another. And another. These were written mostly in Russian, but there were also occasional entries in other languages — French, German, Arabic, what looked like Ukrainian, even Latin. Not willing for the moment to spend the time in tedious translation, Allyson rifled the journals until she found the one in which Russian finally gave way to English. The first entry began:

30 December, 1959.

...We all gathered together for dinner tonight, to finalize the plans for the mission. It will be very dangerous and there was much to discuss. Before dinner, I met a man named Napoleon Solo. His was the name I'd heard so often at Survival School — one and the same...

This was the journal she'd been looking for. Quickly sorting through the remaining ones, Allyson assembled them in an ordered pile, and then retreated to the sofa, next to the lamp where there was much better light.

...I don't know how we'll get on, he and I. I'm afraid I did not make a very good impression. In visiting his hotel room, I disturbed him at a singularly awkward moment...

Allyson nodded to herself. Yes, her father was here all right, but oh, there was so much more. This was the beginning. She already knew the end. And now, —finally — in Illya's journals, she had the whole story in between.

...like the air we breathe. It sustains us, keeps us alive, but we really only notice when it's gone, and its loss leaves us gasping.

Settling in, she tucked her legs under her rump, got comfortable, and began to read.