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

Chapter 12

Napoleon and Illya stood at the deserted square at midnight. The two men were dressed in black, their pistols were stuffed into their pockets. Illya still sported his tweed flat cap and a rifle strapped to his back, and Napoleon wore his beret. They slipped down the road like the shifting shadows, melting into any crevice they could fit into.

"We missed the entrance," Illya grumbled as the two of them took a turn into a narrower street.

"As much as I know how much you love to kick doors down, it's best that we do this more discreetly. There is one entrance and one exit when it's opened for tourists: one-way in, one-way out. But we aren't tourists." Napoleon knelt down on the cobblestone street, in front of a manhole.

"You expect me to go in a gutter."

"Thought you'd feel right at home," Napoleon sneered. Illya scowled in response. He grabbed a torch from his utility belt, threw off the manhole cover and jumped in. Napoleon watched as he landed in the muck, chuckling at the Russian's total rejection of the nearby ladder. After awhile of enjoying the view: standing over Illya from above (instead of getting neck cramps when looking up at him), Napoleon scaled down the ladder. The acrid stench engulfed him as he descended.The two men trudged through the sludge, causing it to slush around their ankles. They covered their noses with the back of their hands.

As the American followed the gleam of his partner's flashlight, his mind wandered to the intense ochre light of his hotel room. Napoleon was reloading his Browning and checking his gear when he heard a knock on his door. After the harsh thud, a soft voice spoke, "Solo?"

"Yes? I'm afraid I'm not appropriately dressed, unless that was what you came here for." He lied; he was dressed, but for an assault mission, not for Salome.

"You're going to do something stupid tonight aren't you?"

"By your definition of stupid, that's what I do every night."

Napoleon could imagine Salome rolling her eyes but she didn't follow with a snarky remark. For a while, they inhabited the same silence, yet thoughts were louder than thunder. Once this mission was done, once he had gotten rid of Azazel, what would happen next? Waverly would repost them, and he would leave Salome without a trace for the last time. Napoleon didn't want that. He was never good at goodbyes, although he was a master at disappearing. He had to say sorry, even though he had forgotten how to. It was not love. No, this was selfish. She just reminded him of a past he could never have again, before everything was contrived and glib.

His thoughts were interrupted by her words, "Will it be dangerous?"

"Without a doubt." Napoleon couldn't tell what she was doing now. She could be sighing in frustration, slamming her hand against her forehead, or trying to hide her worry by fiddling with her hands. What struck Napoleon is what she said next.

"Au revoir, Bonaparte." He never expected her to be the one to say it. Napoleon heard her footsteps pad across the carpeted floor. She did have reason to leave, thought Napoleon, and it was all his deceit of the present, of the past. He wanted to burst out of the room and tell her everything, even if it would only to get her to stop for a second. But he didn't. He stayed in his room until Illya came knocking some time later.

"You think she's alright, Cowboy?" Illya asked in a low voice.

Napoleon replied wistfully, staring into the depths of the tunnel, "It was her decision."

Illya raised his brow and asked, "Are we talking about the same person?"

Napoleon snapped out of his trance, "Oh, you meant Gaby-"

Illya interrupted him, "Did something happen? With Hershlag?"

"No," responded instantly. Napoleon noticed a slight indentation on the side of the tunnel. "Although, I believe we have reached the Cistern." He brought out his pistol to tap it. The wall creaked open. Illya peeped his head through. His torch revealed the rows of columns towering over them, like a forest of stone. The stagnant water beneath them seemed as black as oil, but there were ripples where fish stirred and squirmed. Illya shook his head and pulled his lips in, looking back at Napoleon unimpressed.

"They call this a tourist attraction? The Moscow Metro looks better than this," Illya remarked.

"Well not everyone can have a metro that looks like the inside of a Tsar's palace," Napoleon shrugged, then with a wave of his arm, gestured towards it, "Shall we?"

The two men stepped off the ledge that stood between them and the Cistern. They plopped in with a splash that echoed around the hollow space, like pebbles dropping in a pond.