The Man from U.N.C.L.E: Operation Istanbul

Chapter 2

Illya and Gaby woke up to Napoleon kicking the bed. As the couple staggered up and blinking, Napoleon grinned mischievously. "So the engagement ends and the honeymoon begins," he teased. Illya averted his eyes but Gaby was the first to deny, "It's not what it looks like."

"Don't say that, Gaby, you're breaking Peril's heart."

"How did you get in?"

"I'm an ex-thief, of course I can pick a key hole."

"More like a half reformed ex-thief. Give Illya back his watch." Illya looked at his wrist and found it bare. He gave Napoleon a death stare and began tapping hard against his knee. The American knew that wasn't a good sign and tossed it back to Illya, who caught it mid-air with one hand.

"So what's the plan?"

"Gaby and I will take a nice stroll and see what we find. Peril will get another set of his waiter's uniform and play the raven."

"The raven?"

"Hopefully his charming personality will be able to seduce the Israeli ambassador, Salome Hershlag. You better get dressed, you're scheduled to serve her breakfast in bed at 11." Napoleon took out a photo from his suit jacket pocket. Illya and Gaby stared at it; she was a striking, with large, grey eyes stared through you. It looked at if someone took the picture as she turned. It captured the brevity of the moment, her lips slightly parted; her dark hair flicked to the side, the soft features of her face exhumed a strange serenity.

Gaby noted, "I thought that would be right up your street, Solo."

"Regrettably, not this time."

"Alright, I get it. Just don't let chop shop girl get hurt, Cowboy," Illya got out of bed and gathered his things. Then, he grabbed Napoleon by the collar and threatened, "If you do, I will break your neck." He stormed out and slammed the door.

"You really pissed him off this time," said Gaby as she stepped out of bed.

"I know," Napoleon gloated.

"Why do you wind him up like that, you know he barely has any control over himself."

"It's fun."

"You lie."

"We're spies it comes with the job description."

Gaby sighed in frustration. Napoleon smiled back. "When do we leave?" Gaby groaned.

"As soon as you're ready."

Illya felt deeply uncomfortable. It was not just this tight white tux felt like it was bursting at the seams every time he moved. It was that Solo gave him this job. It felt like he was out to humiliate him. Back then it was a matter of politics, his country's, my country's, get the plans, kill the American. But this time it was personal. The thought of Gaby with that suave Casanova made him to clench the trolley handle tighter. The metal bar bent in half. He took a deep breath in and out. He stared at the room number 807 and poked the doorbell button. Hershlag answered almost immediately. She looked exactly like Napoleon's picture of her, albeit her hair was tied high in a bun. "Please come in," had a low, velvety voice, like a purring cat. Illya forced a smile, but it ended up lasting for millisecond before he returned to his cold stone expression. He rolled the trolley in. He laid the plate of bread with honey and clotted cream on the table in a side dish. After placing the bread knife and fork down, he assumed his position standing at the corner of the room. He felt Hershlag's gaze scan him like airport security. "Aren't you going to go now?" she inquired.

"Only if you tell me to," Illya replied, he felt like smashing his head against a wall. Salome looked amused as she dipped a piece of bread into the honey and took a bite. "You're definitely not Turkish," Illya refused to betray any sign of anxiety, "Russian?"