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

Chapter 13

"That was deeper than I thought it was going to be," Illya noted. Napoleon felt deeply uncomfortable, and no, it wasn't because of the fish that had found its way into his trousers. If this was Mossad's base, then why was it not lit? Napoleon could only think to two explanations: either Salome was mistaken or the agents must be undercover elsewhere, perhaps trying to assassinate us at the Pera Palace this very night. If it were the second explanation, we would have only half an hour maximum before they return. Before that though, there was something Napoleon had to make sure his partner was prepared for.

"I hope you are aware that you might find something you won't like."

"What do you mean?"

"Mossad is known for being ruthless and efficient. The likelihood they would keep a captive for long is highly unlikely. I just have to know that you won't go berserk if-"

"If what?"

"If she's dead," Napoleon whispered. Illya jerked as if he had forgot how to breathe for a split-second.

"How can you say that?" he snapped back.

"It's a possibility we have to acknowledge."

"No, we don't."

"I'm trying to warn you for what might be coming. These type of men are cruel, and what they do to women-"

"Shut up!" Illya roared. His voice echoed through the stone vaults. Illya was fuming; he flashed a deadly look at Napoleon. His expression switched from anger to shock as he saw a red dot of light appear on the side of his partner's head. He furrowed his brows, and resting his chin on his knuckle trying to figure out what it was. "What are you staring at, Peril?"

Illya tackled Napoleon to the water. A gunshot fired, the bullet flew through the air instead of Napoleon's head. With Napoleon still underneath him, Illya took out his rifle from behind his back and pointed it at the direction of the gunshot. He shot into the darkness three times, but none of the bullets seemed to hit the target.

As soon as the two got up, they ran for the columns. The two men were drenched; the sound of their own panting pounded their ears. The hid behind two adjacent columns, Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief and looked at his partner. A red dot was slowly finding its way to Illya's chest. His eyes went wide.

"Peril, there is something I have to tell you, that I have been meaning to say all this time."

"What?"

"That hat doesn't go with the turtleneck."

Illya frowned and charged at Napoleon. They impacted against a nearby column. Another gunshot fired, hitting the column where Illya had hid behind. As the two men wrestled, Napoleon fired some shots over the Russian's shoulder. Once Illya realized what his partner had done, he got off him and reluctantly mumbled, "Thanks."

"Just doing my job. But, seriously, it doesn't match."

They ran through the Cistern. Shots fired at them over and over, hitting the water surrounding them, causing spikes of white waves to rise up against them. They ran in circles. Napoleon rushed from column to column, Illya weaved in and out of them, the bullets chipped away at the stone with each blast. Illya sprinted, his heart drummed with a deep heavy rhythm pounding against his chest. There was no way he could keep this up. The bullet wound on his shoulder from last night still ached; his entire body was stinging. Any moment now, he could feel his arms being reduced to rubber and his legs giving way. Then, all of a sudden, the gunshots stopped. The Cistern descended into silence, the breathless air hummed in his ears. The Russian caught his breath and turned to his partner. He wasn't there. Illya directed his flashlight around the perimeter but found was no trance of him; the depths of the cistern seemed to go on for miles.

As Illya waved his flashlight around, he noticed something in the water. The water around him swirled in in a spiral of colors, like the distorted rainbow. It branched off to a trail leading somewhere in the distance. Illya blinked profusely and shook his head to convince himself he wasn't hallucinating. A click sparked in the distance. A hiss grew into a hot breath that gushed closer. Illya broke out in a sweat. He saw the growing flames illuminate the blackness, the poignant smell of burning oil lodged in his nose. And he was standing in a puddle of it. Illya scrambled to the column next to him, the hard, gravelly stone scraping his palms. He looked up and saw the underbelly of a walkway, at least ten meters above him. Frantically, he buried his hand in his pockets searching for anything, growing desperate as he felt the traces of the fire's burning embrace. He could feel it lick the back of his legs, forcing him to press his body against the column. Then, he found it: the grappling hook. He aimed for the walkway, fired and pulled himself up. The rope rubbed against his palms, but he ignored the burning sensation and kept hauling his body upwards. As soon as he hit the surface of the walkway, Illya collapsed on the concrete floor. For a moment, he allowed himself to shut his eyes. The world disappeared, and in the void he wondered if this entire thing was futile, if Cowboy was right about what happened to Gaby, if they could ever beat Mossad or if Cowboy had even made it out of the fire. The thoughts unsettled him, he chose to abandon them. So Illya opened his eyes, got up, and returned to a nightmare.