Illya and Gaby - The Frenchman (The Man From U.N.C.L.E)

Chapter 4 - The Watcher

Illya stared out the window, squinting in the sunlight, trying to figure out which person had been watching them. "Which one?"

"That fellow with the god-awful beret on his head and leather jacket over his arm." Solo told him, peering around the curtains.

"So I was followed." Illya clenched his jaw, glaring after the man. "We can't stay in this hotel."

"No, you can't. Perhaps we should catch that man and interrogate him about his boss?" Solo suggested, edging towards the door.

"Yes, I like this plan." Illya quickly pulled on his shoes, hurrying to follow Solo. "Gaby, we are following spy."

"What?" She called from the shower, but they were already gone. She closed her eyes, beginning to rinse the shampoo out of her hair. There was no point in trying to follow them, their legs were much longer than hers and they happened to have clothing on.

Illya and Solo raced out of the hotel, nearly knocking over an old woman holding a bucket of flowers. "Sorry!" Solo called over his shoulder as he and Illya chased after the man, who was now nearly four blocks away.

The man looked over his shoulder, eyes widening as he saw Illya and Solo gaining on him. He picked up his pace, breaking into a run after a few steps. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have Illya's 6'5" frame, and the Russian quickly caught up.

Illya grabbed the man's shirt collar, momentarily choking him and very effectively bringing him to a full stop, knocking the hat from his head and the jacket from his arm. "Why were you watching?"

"Watching? I... I wasn't watching?" The man stammered, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Solo shook his head as he caught up. "I'm afraid you were. I saw you myself, gazing up at the window."

Illya brandished a rather large fist. "Tell me who you are. Who is Frenchman?"

The man quaked in his Italian leather shoes. "I am Pierre. F...Frenchman? We are in France."

Solo shook his head knowingly. "I would recommend answering the questions. I've been on the receiving end of that fist and it's not exactly an enjoyable experience."

Illya twisted Pierre's collar and lifted, making the shorter man gasp for air as he found himself standing on his toes. "Tell. Me. Who. The. Frenchman. Is."

"I don't know!" Wheezed Pierre. "He doesn't tell us who he is, just pays is to do what he wants!"

"Better. Where can we find him?" Illya growled, lowering the man a fraction of an inch.

"He doesn't tell us that either, a courier delivers the instructions and then brings payment when the task is done." Pierre's shoes scraped the ground as he tried in vain to regain his footing.

"You have no direct contact with him?"

"No!" Pierre wriggled. "I don't even know when the courier will come."

"Put him down, he clearly doesn't know anything." Solo sighed.

Reluctantly, Illya lowered Pierre to the ground and let go of his collar. The smaller man stumbled back, adjusting his shirt. "Go." Illya ordered. "Before I change my mind."

Pierre turned away, but hesitated, glancing back. "You shouldn't anger The Frenchman. I'm not his only spy, and there are many other willing to do far worse than I." With that, the little man picked up his hat and jacket from where he'd dropped them when Illya caught him, and hurried away.

Illya and Solo watched as Pierre disappeared around a corner, then glanced at each other. "We should get back." They said in unison, quickly walking in the direction of the hotel.

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