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

Chapter 6

All Napoleon could hear was Gaby's scream ringing in his ears. He tried to calm her down as the stunned audience of the garden party gathered around the body, but the tears wouldn't stop. The Red Peril bleed, his skin was raw, the gaping wound on his shoulder like a rose about to bloom. Gaby collasped on her knees and reached out to touch his face, which had been reduced to a black eye and a bloody nose. As she smudged the blood off his lips she felt her fingers warm with the soft flush of a breath. She bit her lip and without hesitation, without doubt, Gaby hugged him. She could feel his heart pound, steady and constant. A stern look melted away from Napoleon's face with Gaby's quivering smile. As Gaby wrapped her arms around him, Napoleon inspected the air vent. There was no trace of Illya's attacker. Gently, Napoleon lifted the Russian and hoisted him over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowd. They went back up to Gaby's room.

The first thing Gaby did was take out her blowtorch and weld her air vent. Napoleon laid Illya out on the sofa. He watched the Russian groan and shift but the pain forced him to recoil each time. Gaby sat by Illya. Clumsily, he reached out for her hand but missed. Gaby smiled a little, and interlaced her fingers with his. Napoleon decided to leave the two and slipped out of the room with the blowtorch.

As soon as Napleon closed the door, Gaby slapped the insensate Russian. It sent a shockwave of stings across his face, but Illya didn't even flinch. "I told you not to go after him," her voice cracked as she wept quietly. He brought his bruised hand to her face, wiping away the tears with his thumb. It felt cold against her skin, but Gaby held on to it like it was her lifeline. Her eyes were forced to acknowledge the deep dark wound on his shoulder, like a barrier to their proximity.

"He wasn't like the others," Illya muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"The ones before were throwaways," he mumbled, "This one was... something else."

"He definitely can put up a fight. But I bet you left him looking worst."

"You don't get it. He could have killed me without taking out his gun."

"If so, why didn't he?"

"He's making statement."

"And what statement is that?"

"Fuck off."

"You must not be used to getting beaten."

"Not in some time."

"When was the last?"

"I was a boy. They left me with this," he pointed at the scar on the side of his forehead. Gaby ruffled her hand through his hair and kissed it like a doting mother. Illya's eyes shot open. He pointed to his bruised lips, a trail of blood still trickled down the side. "I also have a cut here."

"Nice try, my Russian friend, but I'm not in the mood to kiss a bloody mouth." He looked up at her with his big blue eyes and then averted his gaze in bashful disappointment.

"Shame on the suit though," she noted, leting go of his hand. She began with his tie, slipping it out of the knot. Illya was too lethargic to stop her; he just slumped back, and closed his eyes. She slipped off his tattered jacket, his teeth gritted and his face creased slightly, so Gaby proceeded with care. She unbuttoned his bloodstained shirt. Illya raised a brow at Gaby as if to question her, but the rest of his face betrayed an eager anticipation. "What are you doing, chop shop girl?"

"What I do to my cars."

"Ride them?"

"Fix them," She then fished out her first aid kit from her suitcase. "First we need to take put that bullet." Illya took one look at the pincers and gulped, clenching onto the sides of the sofa. What he thought would be a relaxing night with Gaby was going to become very, very painful.

She slapped him. Napoleon felt the sting. What else was did he expect from opening the wardrobe? Salome wasn't exactly the forgiving kind. Or maybe it was because he decided it was more important to weld his air vent first. Either way, the brunette was fuming. "Why did you do that?"

"For the sake of international security, ambassador."

"Don't play games, Bonaparte."

"You used to love games. I don't see why we shouldn't," He gestured her to take a seat on the chair by his porch, while Napoleon lounged on the sofa. "Let's start with a question. What do you know about Charles Knight?"

"He's the British ambassador to Turkey."

Napoleon had always found it easy to tell when Salome was playing coy, that tone in her voice, like a little girl trying desperately to keep a secret. "Tell me what you really know about him."

Reluctantly, she relented, "His real name is Klaus Ritter. He was part of the Gestapo during the war. One of the leading members of Department B, more specifically Section B4 which dealt with-"

"Jewish Affairs. He worked with Eichmann didn't he? Otto Adolf Eichmann, the man who managed the mass deportation of Jews into concentration camps. The same man Mossad kidnapped, put on trial and executed two years ago. Do you see where I am getting at?"

"What are you suggesting? You think that Mossad's going to try something like that again?"

"They are going to do that again. And Ritter's not going to be fortunate enough to get a trial."

"What do you mean?"

"They're going to assassinate him," Salome looked stunned.

"But it's different with Ritter," she stuttered, "They wouldn't be so foolish to assassinate an ambassador. That would cause-"

"A world war. You really don't know this is happening?" Napoleon felt something he never thought he would: pity. Ever since he had known her, she had been kept in the dark about almost everything, only scratching the surface never knowing what lay beneath. Admittingly, Napoleon had played a part or two in concealing the whole truth. It was for her own good.
Salome had grown silent. Napoleon didn't dare to say more. He only watched as she slipped out of the door. Napoleon rubbed his forehead. He decided to seek comfort in his faithful glass of cognac. His mind wandered to what Gaby and Illya were getting up to. He heard a man's anguished scream, followed by cursing in Russian. Napoleon sighed and took long from sip from his glass. Assured by the safety of his welded air vent, he leaned back on his sofa and slept.