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She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly; the smoke rippling around her head like a bleary halo. Scratching her forehead with two nails covered in dark blue polish, Gaby Teller turned the page of the Automobile Magazine she was reading and stared in marvel at the picture of a late model car that caught her attention. It was a red Chevrolet Impala that had already been in the market for two or three years, but that for her, who had grown up in a country where most people only ever got to own dilapidated cars, if any vehicle at all, it looked like the eighth wonder of the world. Once she saw the price of the fine automobile, however, the smile that had appeared in Gaby's face quickly disappeared and was replaced by an unpleased frown. She would never be capable of paying something like that; not even with the generous salary that her superiors provided her with every month.
She turned off her cigarette in the glass ashtray at her left, and pulled out another from the small Marlboro box that Napoleon had bought for her that morning. It was passed midnight already, and even thought she was tired for the long plane ride, Gaby couldn't sleep. She had been half awake and half asleep during the whole journey, and now that she had reached her destiny she didn't feel like resting, but she didn't feel like doing anything else either. Her American friend didn't seem to have any problems with that, if the loud snoring that was coming from the other side of the room was anything to go by. She almost envied him.
She lit another cigarette and shifted in her seat so she could look through the window. They were staying in a small hotel in the downtown of New York; nothing too elegant nor too shady. For some reason, they had the misfortune to be given the only room in the building that overlooked a huge neon advertisement of Santa Claus drinking a refreshing bottle of Coca-cola. It was a rather distracting, if not disturbing sight, and it had been bothering Gaby ever since she took a peek through the window for the first time. Napoleon had already warned her about the obnoxious amount of publicity that embellished the Big Apple, and when she came out of the airport the petit fräulein had already been prepared for the blinding lights and the colorful neon advertisements. Prepared, but still not accustomed.
As a thread of grey smoke began to pour out of her mouth, Gaby's thoughts were suddenly drawn towards Illya Kuryakin, and she had to wonder how well was going his first visit to the United States. She could easily picture him in a hotel room not unlike her own, sitting before a chess board with his eyes narrowed in thought. He wouldn't be drinking, nor listening to the radio. He wouldn't turn on the television, nor venture in the outside to take fresh air. He would just play against his non-existing opponent, as silent as ever, lost in the symmetrical arrangement of the board's black and white squares. A few months ago, back in Rome, Gaby had found this attitude incredibly annoying; bothersome, even. But now that her view of the KGB's finest wasn't as obscure as it used to be, she actually found something endearing about it.
Suddenly, as she stared pass the neon advertisements and into the little busy streets of the block, Gaby found herself wondering if Illya was angry about their relocation. Had he problems working on the other side of the Curtain? Or it was all the same for him? Looking at New York, she could only guess that he would dislike the city. He would dislike the lights and the noise; the unending cars, and the citizens; all that strange world that the Americans had built around themselves and that was so unlike his own. She had no way to tell for sure, however. Illya Kuryakin was a nutshell for his teammates more often than not, and sometimes it was impossible for her to guess what was going on inside his head.
Gaby wouldn't have said that she disliked New York, but there was certainly something about the city that didn't inspire confidence in her. It was a strange place. Noisy, but peaceful at the same time. Nothing like the ever bustling streets of East Germany; where the gargantuan light reflectors of the army seemed to follow the citizens wherever they went, and both soviet and german troopers harassed them day and night. This should have made her feel safe. Relieved, perhaps. But it didn't.
After the war, America had become famous all around Europe for President Truman's promises of peace and freedom. He spoke about a place where there was safety and abundance, and the Army couldn't lash against the population without facing major consequences. Most Germans believed this to be true, and if they ever had the chance to get pass the Wall, their first choice for a new life was usually the United States. There were other Germans, however, who thought the freedom land to be a terrible place; a hideout for traitors and fascists, where money was the lord and master of all citizens. Even now, Gaby didn't know which one of these versions was the truth, and the incertitude didn't let her feel at ease.
Tomorrow, she and Napoleon would have a meeting with Waverly and they would finally get the information they needed to carry on with their next mission. If everything went accord to the plan, Illya would be there too. For some reason, that thought made the tight knot that her reflections had formed in Gaby's stomach loose up a little. Even if she was in a dangerous place, she was certain that he wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. She knew that it was stupid to trust so much in him; she also knew that this sentimentality towards another agent was bound to get her in trouble more sooner than later, but she couldn't find it in herself to stop. The feeling had already planted roots inside her, and it was not going away anytime soon.
That December 20, 1963, Napoleon Solo woke up to the sound of garlands and Christmas lights being dragged across the floor of his hotel room. He frowned, lost in that flustering sea that lies between somnolence and lucidity, and shifted in the bed with discomfort. As he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse of Gaby Teller's long brown hair and the unmistakable glimmer of her white framed sunglasses. He rubbed his eyes, trying to take the drowsiness away, and sat upright on the bed in an attempt to wake up. Gaby was standing in front of him, looking down at his bedside table. She was wearing a white sundress that he had seen on her a couple of times before, and a glimmering black belt. Even from that distance he could tell that she smelled of perfume and cigarettes.
Apparently, she had made the most for the time that Napoleon had been using for sleeping. She was fully dressed already; she carried her handbag and camera, and all the small devices that he had placed inside them before boarding their plane in Istanbul. She had cleaned her part of the room so thoughtfully that there was no sight that she had even been there at all. It seemed that Gaby even had the time to go out shopping and come back to the hotel room before Napoleon could wake up. There was no other explanation, because he was sure that when he went to sleep the night before the small Christmas tree that Gaby was so thoughtfully decorating in his bedside table hadn't even been in the room.
“How long did I slept?” He asked, passing a hand through his disheveled black hair.
“Not long. It's only seven o'clock.” She responded, putting a small yellow star on top of the Christmas tree and pushing a bottom to turn on the lights. Napoleon frowned, looking around the room. Besides the miniature decoration in his bedside table, there were three shinning reindeers on top of the wooden desk where he had accommodated his things, and a few golden jingle bells hanging from the panned windows. It wasn't much, but it looked nice for a small hotel room.
“When did you do all this?” Napoleon got up from the bed and began to stretch, trying to get rid of the stupor that had numbed his muscles after such a long sleep.
“Last night.” Gaby said, turning around to look at him. He frowned, and she shrugged lazily. “I had trouble sleeping.”
Suddenly aware that, while his partner was completely dressed and ready to go out, he was only wearing underpants and an old tee shirt, Napoleon took the blue nightgown that he had left hanging on the bedstead and idly put it on. He made his way towards the closet and put out a red dress shirt, a tie and black pants. They were going to stay in the hotel room for a while, so he had decided that it was better to pull his things out of the suitcase and get them inside the wardrobe. In case he had to make a quick exit, he'd only loose a couple of garments, easily replaceable. “So, where are we going?” Gaby asked him, sitting on his bed and crossing her arms above her chest. She didn't seem to be in a very good mood. Napoleon guessed that under those sunglasses there were some quite visible dark circles. Not sleeping does that to women, he thought dismissively.
“Nowhere in particular. We're here on vacations, so Waverly wants us to go out for a while before the meeting. You know, sightseeing and all that.” He explained, and began to bottom his dress shirt in front of the mirror. “It's pretty much like the last time, if you think about it.” The American turned around to face his partner, and a look at her face was enough to make him regret the last sentence. Gaby's posture was suddenly very stiff, and the corners of her mouth were turned down unhappily. “This isn't like the last time.” She muttered, adverting her gaze to look through the closed windows and beyond. Outside, everything was covered in mist. It wasn't snowing, but the cold was strong enough to bring rain and grey clouds with it. It would be better to go out with a coat.
“Anyway, you just play along.” Napoleon said, adjusting the knot of his tie. “We just have to plant microphones in our guy, and then listen to the audio. Won't even have to make contact.” He went back to the closet and pulled out a jacket; it was big and kind of old, but fitting for the occasion.
“You mean Illya gets to do all the work.” Gaby said, letting herself fall on top of the bed. There was a reproach in her tone that made Napoleon want to roll his eyes. His partner was a good agent; one who normally only made mistakes because of her lack of experience, but whenever Illya Kuryakin was concerned, her good judgment seemed to vanish in thin air.
He wasn't in the mood to stand the daring girl's attitude, however, so he didn't said anything about it and instead continued getting dressed. Fifteen minutes later he came out of the hotel room with Gaby, and they walked down the hallway arm in arm, for they still had to keep the appearances. He carried a black raining coat with him, and a large umbrella of the same color. He had meant to stay quiet during their journey to the Rockefeller Center, since Gaby's poor temper hadn't went unnoticed to him, but as they stepped out of the hotel and headed into the streets Napoleon's ill sense of humor seemed to come back to him, and offended by his partner's sullen silence, he decided to speak.
“Red is an awful color, kid.” Was what he said, opening the umbrella and covering both of their heads with it. He could already feel tiny drops of water falling over his clothes. If they were lucky, it would only be a light drizzle. “I don't understand why you like it so much.” In response he only got a low grunt, and not ready to start a fight just yet, the rest of the day he decided to stay silent.
She was sitting on the other side of the room, right under a window overlooking the crowded streets of New York. Her hair was tied up, and she was wearing a simple white dress that didn't seem fit for the weather. Their American friend was beside her, trying to start a conversation, by the looks of it. She seemed uninterested. Bored even. She was the kind of woman who couldn'y hide her bad mood, no matter how much she wanted to. This had proven to be both amusing and problematic in the past, depending on the occasion.
Illya didn't stare for too long, knowing that it could look suspicious, and instead turned around to look at the entertainment. There was no jazz music this time, but a soft Christmas song that was making him feel drowsy. The man singing in the stage was tall and well dressed, and his hair was covered in a ridiculous amount of gel. He reminded him to Napoleon, somehow, except for the prominent jaw and the hooked nose. The lyrics of his songs were full of religious concepts that Illya found offensive, but he was a cautious man, and he knew that starting a quarrel over such topic in a public place would be a folly. So he remained silent, and kept looking at the show during a song or two; refusing to look behind him and search for Gaby Teller's clear brown eyes.
Somewhere between the third song he heard a loud crash in the other side of the room, and Illya instinctively turned around and slid a hand into his right pocket. He only found a waitress bending to pick up shards of glass from the floor, and guessed that a citizen had simply pushed their drink off the table. Nothing serious. He left his gun where it was, trying to cover up the fact that he had been about to pull it out. Gaby was looking at the incident too, and Illya realized that it was too late to advert his gaze now. Their eyes locked, and even in the poorly lit room he could see that she had recognized him. It was that glint in her eyes. The one that always appeared whenever he laid eyes upon her.
He looked away, and so did she. The song ended, and the audience began to stand up from their seats to clap at the good performance. As the sound filled the room, and whistles and shouts joined in, he felt her eyes on him again, but he refused to turn around and stare back at her. Anyone could be watching, and if someone saw them and suspected they knew each other the mission could be compromised. This was something Illya couldn't afford. So he stood still in his place before the bar counter until the applause quieted down, and when all the guests began to sit back on their respective chairs, he went back to his seat on the barstool.
The meeting was a rather quick affair, and he took no part of it. After receiving a note from one of the waiters Napoleon and Gaby headed to the kitchen, where Waverly was waiting for them. The Russian's only job was to keep any stranger from entering the place until the reunion was over, so he didn't get to talk with his superior or his teammates. It still wasn't the moment to make contact, he knew, and until then Illya would have to do his job, stay put and hope for the best.
That night of December, 1963, Illya Kuryakin woke up to the sound of rocks being thrown at his bedroom window. They were small rocks, not even large enough to scratch the glass, and at the beginning, thinking that it was only his imagination, he tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. The sound didn't stop, thought, and still feeling drowsy and kind of numb Illya found himself standing up from the bed and heading towards the panned window. Outside everything was quiet. The moon was shinning on the puddles of water that the rain had left behind and a headlight was slightly illuminating the center of the street. Beneath it Gaby Teller stood, leaning over a shimmering 1955 Chevy and toying with a small rock in her right hand.
Illya frowned, and after staring at her for a few seconds he turned around to look at the clock on his bedside table. It was 1:00 A.M already. Gaby seemed to take notice of him, because she started to walk closer, and out of impulse Illya opened the window and stuck his head out. She waved at him, with an almost disturbing calmness. “What are you doing here?” He asked, not entirely capable of hiding the uneasiness in his voice. He didn't know who could be watching, and if their man or anyone connected to him caught them together before the mission was over things could turn down for the worst very quickly. It was a beginner's mistake. One he would have thought was below Gaby.
She shrugged, thought, seeming unconcerned; as if she couldn't even phantom all the dangers that her presence there could cause. “I couldn't sleep.” She said, placing her hand over the lower branch of a nearby tree. “Waverly said you were staying here so… I thought I could pass by and say hello.” She wasn't looking at him while she spoke. She was looking at the ground, at the tree, at the shimmering red car; at anything but him. Perhaps she was embarrassed; maybe just distracted. After a few seconds of staring at the floor she raised her head to look up at him. “So… hello.” She said, shrugging and making something with her face that wasn't quite a smile, but was close enough.
Feeling conflicted, Illya turned to look at his hotel room, as if making sure that everything was in the way he had left it before going to sleep. He then stared into the streets, and searched for anything that might be a signal of trouble. There was no one strange passing by, and Gaby's red Chevy seemed to be the only car on the vicinity. She hadn't been followed, as far as he could see; but one never knew. They could be on the other side of the street, on the rooftop of the building opposite; waiting for the right moment to make their move. They could be inside the hotel, hiding among the staff; or in the other side of the hallway; listening their conversation through the way too thin walls of the bedroom.
Illya's first instinct was to close the window and go back to sleep, before the snoopers had the chance to spot him. He would be of no use for the mission if he was exposed ahead of time, and he didn't have to be the one to bear with the burden of Gaby's mistake; no matter how innocent it was. But if I do that… they would go after her, he thought, feeling anxiety rise up his chest. Illya looked down again, his eyes immediately locking with Gaby's, and ever so slightly he smiled at her. There was no reason to alarm her, now that the damage was done. “You want company?” He asked, and those three words alone made the petit fräulein brighten up.
“Yeah… some company would be nice.” She said, straightening her back and letting go of the low tree branch. Illya nodded at her quickly, closing the window in a swift motion, and after taking a hat and a light jacket from the rack he got out of the small hotel room and headed downstairs. The Mauser pistol hanging from his belt, he tried to tell himself while he went down step by step, was nothing but a wise precaution.
“Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.”
Alphonse de Lamartine.