Chapter Text
Istanbul is hot. Very hot. It is not something Gaby is used to; not the daily rings and calls of the mosques, not the people shoving and pushing and yelling; not the overpowering scents of the spices; not the noise; not the sweat. It is nothing like East Berlin, nothing like Rome, nothing like Europe. She has never been more uncomfortably reminded of her humble and sheltered life behind the Wall – next to Napoleon and Illya, she feels like a child. They have both been to Istanbul before, obviously – Napoleon thrice, Illya twice. Napoleon speaks the language, Illya has gotten very good at intimidating the pushy salesmen to leave him alone. They are the experts, the real, professionally trained spies – she is just a girl whose father got her in the mess in the first place. It is all too new, too bright, too loud – and you know what else? Too damn hot.
It’s a good thing she can mask her insecurity in this confusing place by being quiet and hiding her questioning eyes under the sunglasses at all times. They are very large, gold framed and round, and her very best friend at the moment. She stretches for a second; the divan is uncomfortable and not at all good for lounging in all day, which is what she has precisely been doing anyways. They are all waiting for Waverley to show up with their assignment and identities – after a full week of waiting in the Istanbul safe house and getting used to the place, anyone would grow restless. Illya looks impatient and a bit uncomfortable in his light short-sleeved shirt, the cut of which does not suit him at all; even Napoleon gives way to his inner restlessness by turning the pages of his newspaper too quickly. Gaby has not been a spy for long, but she notices things now. When Waverly walks in, some thirty minutes later, the relief is palpable: Gaby straightens her back almost imperceptibly, Napoleon folds up his paper, and Illya simply looks up. There is something about his blue eyes that Gaby cannot ignore, even when she tries her hardest – the expression he has now makes her remember the dim sunlight in that Rome hotel room, except his eyes were more open then and completely honest in their message…
„Right“, says Waverly, rubbing his hands together. „Here’s the situation. And there is, believe me, absolutely no time to waste. I admit the bosses took their sweet time in approving the identities I assigned you. And the paperwork was no joke, too.“
He tosses three worn-looking passports on the glass table in front of them. When Gaby reaches out and opens one, the picture on the front page is of Napoleon but his name is Jonathan Creek, and the document is almost stamped completely through. She throws it to Napoleon, who catches it without ever glancing away from Waverley’s face.
„The stitch here, gentlemen“, Waverley continues, „is that the Vinciguerras had an enormous network of suppliers all over Europe. Now, most of them have already been taken down mere hours after we did our share of the work, but-“
He sits down, elegantly crossing his legs.
„One last connection remains. An underground factory of all the parts that make a bomb go ‘boom’ and 'bang’, if you would believe so, is spread out beneath the Bosphorus channel. And they have not stopped production, no sir. In fact, they picked it up in the last week or so, if the intel is correct. We need to find out who are they supplying for now that the Vinciguerras are out of the business. We got a couple of men working from the inside for the last year or so, and through that connection we secured two jobs on the main line. Gaby, I trust you are as good with a screwdriver as ever?“
She nods. „Good. Because I think mr. Solo will need a crash course.“
Napoleon scoffs. Of course he scoffs. Gaby just chooses to ignore it.
„Mr. Kuryakin , how is your French?“
Illya shifts in his seat.
„Suffisant“, he grumbles.
„Perfect“, replies Waverly, leaning forward. „You got the big role in this one, my Soviet friend. The owner of the factory is 26 year old Jacquelline de la Roche, spoiled, beautiful, and, above all, rumoured to have quite a thing for Slav men.“
Illya huffs an annoyed breath and rolls his eyes; and Gaby is glad, because she did the exact same in the privacy of her own mind. Her dress suddenly feels too hot and tight. She picks up her paper fan, opening it a bit more forcefully then she intended to.
„Don’t even worry about the French, mr. Kuryakin, though it is a plus. You just keep your charming accent and I suspect things will fall right into your lap.“
„Excuse me“, says Napoleon quite sweetly. „Not to interfere with the orders of my superiors, but are you sure that’s exactly what the plan you got sent said? Isn’t there an obvious role reversal you might see here that would be better for all involved? No offense, but I feel like there is still a lot of tundra residing in this Russian heart“, he says, glancing at the Illya’s direction.
„Do you think I will not be able to seduce a woman?“, Illya retorts quite harshly, turning to Napoleon.
Gaby unfurls her legs from the divan and straightens to watch the show; opposite her, Waverly looks similarly amused but uncomfortable at the same time.
„Now, now, agents“, he interrupts. „It is what it is. I am sure that mr. Kuryakin will find no trouble with this assignment. After all, it is not his heart that is supposed to melt, it’s hers.“
In one quick movement, he stands up and smooths out his suit jacket. „All the papers are on the table in front of you. The intelligence, the identities, their background. I am sure I don’t have to tell you to handle this with the maximum efficiency and discreteness you can. Really looking forward to the weekly reports.“
Once he leaves the room, Gaby lowers her sunglasses and leans towards the remaining two passports on the table.
„Alright“, she says, suddenly feeling the rush of the adrenaline hit her, „which one is mine?“