Chapter Text
He stood in front of the grey apartment block In the Mitte neighborhood of East Berlin on a miserable drizzly afternoon. It's the last place on Earth that you would expect someone as captivating as Gaby to reside. She fit in so well with the exotic landscapes of their missions that he often forgets that she is native to this small dark corner of communist Berlin.
It has been weeks since their last mission ended and Illya returned to the Easten Bloc to placate his KGB retainers. After being assured of his allegiance and commitment in Moscow, Illya was granted permission to continue with UNCLE. For the time being. Before returning to the West to rendezvous however, he has one more task to complete that has been on his mind since he left Istanbul.
While making their way through a bazaar on their last day in Turkey, Gaby had been drawn to the stall of a jewelry vendor hawking bracelets, necklaces and rings containing mother of pearl. Illya had noticed how solemn Gaby became as she looked at the gleaming pieces.
Coming up beside her, Illya only had to look at her in concern to receive an explanation. "My mother left me a necklace of mother of pearl" she said, lightly touching one of the finer pieces "I suppose I'll never see it again". Gaby shrugged sadly and moved along to the next stall. It hadn't occurred to Illya until that moment that Gaby had left East Berlin with no preparation - due to his pursuit - and had no opportunity to even bring one keepsake with her. He remembered with a pang how much it hurt to know he may never see his father's watch again and he felt terribly guilty knowing she may have the same connection to some lost heirloom of her own.
At that moment he had resolved to do everything within his power to bring her back something from her former life. He was the only one of the three agents who could enter East Berlin without immediate danger or harassment and he was going to take advantage of that privilege.
Now, standing in front of the address he had obtained months ago when Gaby first became a 'person of interest' he was going to do what he could to reclaim her keepsakes.
He entered the drab building and climbed to the third floor. Stopping in front of the apartment door he proceeded to effortlessly pick the lock. It was the middle of the day but he was unconcerned. Even when the door to the apartment on the right opened and a middle aged woman entered the corridor, he didn't stop his task. The woman took one look at him, diverted her eyes and headed for the stairway on the opposite end of the building. Smart.
The lock gave and he entered. He was somewhat surprised to find that the apartment had not been ransacked by Stasi goons, but he supposed her initial status as a KGB decoy and now as an UNCLE agent gave her some semblance of immunity. He has no doubt, however, that one of his colleagues has already inspected this place discreetly and that if he took the time to look he'd find it bugged from ceiling to floor.
The apartment itself was small and sparse. In the living area there was a little couch with colorful pillows across from an orange armchair, record table and bookshelf. A shag rug donned the floor while ugly yellow and orange striped wallpaper covered the walls. He guessed Gaby inherited the property from her foster family and had not bothered with many updates since. On the opposite side of the space was the even smaller kitchen. A red kettle sat on the stove, and a used tea cup in the sink, its owner never having returned to wash it.
He felt strangely vulnerable standing in the apartment. He had searched hundreds of personal residences in his career, both with and without the owners' knowledge, but here he felt invasive and awkward, like he could feel her eyes watching him as he surveyed her home. He imagined her stretched out on the little couch, feet up on the arm, magazine in hand, eyebrow raised and quizzical look on her face as she asks him what exactly he thinks he's doing.
Rolling his shoulders to ebb his discomfort he knelt in front of the bookshelf to begin his search. He quickly scanned its contents; mechanical and automotive manuals, books on English grammar that she has probably had since she was a school girl, and picture frames. Within the first silver frame a slight woman in her early thirties smiled gently at him. She had dark eyes and the same angular face as her daughter. Beside her frame was another more recent photo of a teenaged Gaby and what was likely her foster father. They stood in his garage next to a gleaming sports car. Illya took the photos and wrapped them in his jacket before putting it in a bag he brought.
He moved on to the record player which had a stack of albums at its side. He inspected the first few on the top of the deck, confused to find that most are albums of traditional German folk music, but upon further review he noticed the jackets did not match the vinyls inside. She has a small collection of what looks like British, West German and American popular music. Music that is strictly prohibited by the Stasi. Even though she can easily buy replacement albums for her new flat in London he took the collection anyway and added it to the bag. He knew he will eventually regret taking them as it is only a matter of time before he is subjected to their sounds.
Normally he would make special note of such a collection - clear signs that someone is planning to defect, or who is receiving bribes from foreign contacts - but with her it is oddly endearing. He imagines her as a little magpie, flitting around the city collecting bits of Western culture to bring back and hide in her nest.
Down the narrow hallway he finds the bedroom. It is small, with the unmade bed taking up the majority of the space, but there was a modest wardrobe in the corner. He opened the doors and saw her clothing hanging neatly inside. She has since acquired new, high-end clothing and he can safely assume that she probably doesn't want the somewhat drab looking contents of her old wardrobe. He opened the top drawer below the hanging clothing and quickly closed it when he caught a glimpse of lace. He knows that people (women especially) will hide valuable objects in such drawers but he refuses to see the look on her face when she has a keepsake returned only to realize that it means he went rifling through her undergarments. Whatever else was in there would have to remain a mystery.
He was relieved to find that the next drawer contains her jewelry. Within a small music box he found the mother-of-pearl necklace. The Art Deco piece was outdated but it was made with beautiful craftsmanship nonetheless. He delicately wrapped the music box in thick scarf from the wardrobe above. He collected her few rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings and put them into one of her smaller handbags before he added it and the music box to the rest of the items.
A small night stand with a lamp sat next to the bed, containing one long shallow drawer. He sat on the bed to inspect the drawer's contents. Several French fashion magazines, an address book (with numerous pages ripped out), hair pins and one and five pfennig coins scattered about the bottom, two foil wrapped condoms- He slammed the drawer shut and stood up from the bed, balling his fists. Nothing else to see there.
Calming himself, he dropped down on one knee and looked under the bed. Several pairs of heels were lined up in a row. Behind them, nearly touching the wall on the other side, was a cardboard box. He pulled the box out from under the bed and opened it, resisting a sneeze from the cloud of dust he disturbed. Inside the box was a photo album. The photos looked to be at least twenty years old, judging from the clothing being worn by their subjects. He sat on the floor with his back against the bed and flipped through. A small child with the same woman in the frame in the living room. Toddling about a garden landscape the child already has the defiant dark eyes that have become so familiar to him. The photo on the opposite page shows the three of them. He has only seen the man once before - and not in the best circumstances - but he certainly recognized him. He felt a flash of anger, seeing the family that this man would one day abandon. Leaving her in a city massacred by war and then occupied by a foreign power. Your country, he reminded himself. Not for the first time he suppressed the guilt he feels when he thinks about her life in East Berlin. These are dangerous thoughts, he warned.
He closed the album and looked back at the box. Inside one small beady eye stared back at him. The plush brown bear was probably only a fourth of its original size, most of its stuffing having been ripped out ages ago, but it still had a cheery little face despite having been loved to pieces. Its head was only attached to its body by a couple strands. He smiled back at it. This would be used as fodder to tease her for weeks.
Adding the box's contents to his bag he exited the bedroom. There is a small bathroom off the hallway opposite with a pedestal sink, several small shelves of toiletries and a shower with a clear plastic curtain...
He swallowed hard.
Shaking his head he entered the bathroom, not expecting to find much of value, but quickly inspected the shelves of toiletries. Among bottles of shampoo, soap, lotion and a hair dryer he spotted a familiar brand of men's shaving foam. Maybe she uses it? Or maybe...
He ground his teeth and stalked out of the bathroom and back into the living area.
He set the bag on the couch and looked around the room one last time. Everything else will need to remain behind, and he can only hope he has found her most sentimental keepsakes to return. He suddenly felt haunted standing in the abandoned apartment and found himself feeling even more anxious to return to the woman who's presence is only a memory in this place.
Zipping up the bag he headed out into the corridor and closed the door on her former life.