A museum piece—or more precisely, the cursed "Borgia Tear" diamond, worth the budget of a small island nation—now weighed pleasantly in the inner pocket of his tuxedo.

The plan had been flawless. But, as often happens with U.N.C.L.E. agents, the security service of the Hamburg arms baron's private estate proved to be slightly less cooperative than Napoleon had anticipated. The result: barking Dobermans, searchlights, gunfire at his back, and a sprint across perfectly manicured landscape lawns.
The only way out was the lake. Without a second's hesitation, Solo dove gracefully like a swallow into the dark, cool water, leaving the enraged guards far behind.
A couple of minutes later, the surface of the water was silently sliced. Napoleon slowly emerged on the opposite shore, softly brushing back his wet dark hair. Droplets of water ran evocatively down his sculpted cheekbones, the collar of his white shirt clung picturesquely to his chest, and his bowtie was only slightly askew. Brushing the water from his eyelashes, he adjusted his cuff with a light movement, still looking as if he had stepped off the cover of Vogue rather than having just made an escape via a triumphant swim.
Solo was already prepared to flash his signature half-smile, but as he looked up, he froze.
On the pier, right in front of him, stood those who had been waiting for him on the other side of the lake all along. The weapons in their hands were pointed straight at his chest.
Solo raised an eyebrow slightly, without losing his composure in the slightest, and smoothly wrung out the edge of his soaked jacket.
"I hope you're here to offer me a dry towel and a glass of martini?" he said lightly, stepping smoothly out of the water and onto the shore.