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

Chapter 16

"Keep your arms straight. And stop shaking," Illya hollered at Gaby from the other side of the field. Gaby locked her arms into place, her grip on the gun tight as she aimed haphazardly at a dead tree. They had hopped on a taxi at about one in the morning and asked to be dropped anywhere within an hour away from Istanbul. Their driver had seemed to know just the right place. The plains were barren, with dry straw-like grass, the occasional goat and a dead tree perfect for target practice.

"I'm trying," Gaby whined.

Illya responded stoically, "And when you pull the trigger, watch the recoil."

"I know, Napoleon told me."

"That's one of the few things Cowboy is right about."

Gaby rolled her eyes. She let her arms fall, the Marakov pistol in her right hand next to her thigh and her left hand rested on her hip. Whether it was Gaby's intention or not, Illya found it altogether alluring; the little brunette who held the promise of danger in one hand and the soft curve of her body in the other. He snapped out of his trance when he heard the words, "Do you mind giving me a hand?"

Illya gulped. He walked over to Gaby then took his place behind her, gently placing his hands over hers. Gaby sucked in her breath, her back was embraced by a characteristic warmth from a body that seemed to be built from stone. Illya looked down and noticed how her small, nimble hands seemed consumed by his massive fingers. Gaby noticed too, his grip was nearly crushing her hands.

"Illya, this is uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Your palms are sweaty and you're holding on too tight."

"Sorry." Illya loosed his grip reluctantly. Suddenly he flinched, feeling the presence of someone nearby. Illya turned around, bringing the gun and Gaby with him. They were faced with Waverly, who seemed to have materialized from the sand and dust in the middle of the barren field. The Englishman cautiously pushed the gun away with his walking stick.

"I hope you two aren't making Istanbul your honeymoon." he turned to Illya and teased, "You took Gaby out for a romantic evening of target practice, I presume?"

He scowled, "What are you doing here?"

"In the kindest words, this mission has been an absolute disaster. U.N.C.L.E. has failed their probationary mission, and I will have to write an obituary to Mr. Solo's mother, who was last seen in the Yucatan six months ago."

"You can't just get rid of us now. If you do that there will be no one who can stop Mossad."

"You two are clearly not experts in that field. I may have orders to inform you of the suspension of the program- but it doesn't mean I will be preventing you from completing the mission. Here are two tickets to the gala. I will take Solo's one. Fortunately, I am an old friend of Mr. Knight so I will be able to make sure you two are close to him. Kuryakin, I understand you already swapped your cover from waiter to Soviet ambassador. Gaby, dear, how's your Russian going?"

"хорошо." Gaby replied. Illya gawked at her, stunned.

"Wonderful!" Waverly exclaimed, "So, Gaby, you will be the ambassador's wife."

Gaby took notice of Illya's expression and raised her brow, "Impressed?"
"No. Bad accent."

"Napoleon's German sounds better than yours." Illya folded his arms.

Waverley took the cue to interrupt. "I think it's about time we get back to the Pera Palace."

"Where's the Gala going to be?" Gaby asked.

"I understand the president chose a rather extravagant venue choice. It will be at the Hagia Sofia."

Salome had rung the phone to Napoleon's room five times. After the first two tries, aggravation seized her like a lioness wrestling with her prey. A feeling of restlessness pulled her around wildly, relentlessly, as compelling as the emotional equivalent of centrifugal force. She paced around her room in circles, until she could memorize the minute distinctions of texture between each tile that touched the bare pads of her feet. When she tried for the third time, she whispered to herself, "Bonaparte's too smart. He wouldn't get in trouble. And if he did, he would get out." But when the line droned a monotonous beep, she succumbed again to anxiety. It gnawed away her sleep during the early hours of the morning, and in her wake it consumed her mind.

'I'm sorry, Solo,' she begged in her head. But a moment buried deeper in her memory, in the darker depths, made her realize something:

'You never said sorry to me.'