I've narrated this primarily but not exclusively through Gaby's POV. I love that she has her own story in this, and she's not just there as a love interest. That being said- Illya & Gaby, need I say more? No? I thought not.
Unfortunately I've used up all my wit on this fic (at least, I like to think it's witty) so this disclaimer is bland and snark free- but should cover my ass.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I give due props in no particular order to :Guy Ritchie, Lionel Wigram, Sam Rolfe, MGM and Warner Bros. as the writers/creators/owners. It is not in any way, shape or form mine. I've simply borrowed the characters, and I promise to put them back where I got them, happy and relaxed.
In that vein, any dialogue tagged ** is from the movie. Credit where credit is due.
Happy Reading.
~H.W
East Berlin,
September 13, 1961
Early Afternoon
Gabriela Teller is a stunningly pretty young woman. With dark hair, light olive skin and luminous brown eyes: she is just the sort of woman Waverly would've tried to romance in his younger days. Even smeared with grease and smelling of motor oil, he's certain that she has more than a few admirers-himself included. Currently he's admiring her prodigious skill as a driver. She's piloting an ancient tow truck bearing his crumpled Citroen through the narrow streets of East Berlin with unparalleled finesse.
They bump along over the cobblestones as the wipers snicker back and forth, smearing the rain in great streaks across the windscreen. The world passing them by outside seems even drearier than it had been that morning.
"You rear ended a tank?" she asks, unable to keep the rising note of incredulity out of her voice.
Waverly rubs his neck. "Yes. Rather unfortunate. Raining, you know."
She shifts into third, nearly standing straight up as she mashes the clutch into the floor. "You're lucky all you've got is a stiff neck."
"I am indeed, Miss Teller."
She doesn't even blink. Her tone is light and casual. "I think you've got the wrong woman. My name is Schmidt."
"I don't think I do, Miss Teller. My name is Waverly. I'm MI6."
She gives a little laugh, low in her throat.
"I take it you are not surprised?"
"Your accent and your suit give you away," she says in English,
"Aren't you the least bit worried I could be a double agent?"
"It's East Germany, Mr. Waverly. How do you know that I won't inform on you?" She cranks the wheel left, hanging her weight off it as she does. "What is it that you want?"
"You've heard of the A-bomb, Miss Teller?"
She shoots him a look that says do you think I'm an idiot? "I live in East Berlin, Mr. Waverly. Not under a rock."
"Then you know that it is the greatest threat of our time-a threat which your father, Udo Teller, helped create."
She swallows and nods.
"After the war your father was relocated to the United States. There, he continued his work on the A-bomb. That is, until he disappeared early last month. We don't know where to, but we have reliable intelligence that says his Nazi compatriots will come looking for him. We cannot allow them to find him."
She brakes abruptly, snapping him against the seatbelt. They sit at a rough idle as a mother chases a small child out of the street. "I don't know what I can do for you. I haven't seen him in years."
"No, you haven't, have you? Not since January of '45, when he left you and your mother to the tender mercies of the Russians."
She grunts and shifts into first and they creep forward, slowly picking up steam.
"It is imperative that we find your father, Miss Teller. The knowledge in his head-well: let's just say it's enough to wreak such destruction on the world that the '40s will look like a Sunday picnic."
"And what is it exactly that you want me to do?"
"When the Nazis come looking for you as they are sure to do, play along with them. We'll use them to find your father."
"You mean use me, more like it," she says coolly.
"To be honest, yes." Waverly lays his briefcase across his lap and releases the clasps. He reaches in and extracts a plain white business card. "Once they make contact, call me as soon as you can. This number goes to my secretary. She can reach me anywhere in the world. I suggest you memorize it, and then destroy it."
She hesitates for a moment then accepts it, unzipping her jumpsuit to tuck it neatly into her bra.
They drive on in silence. When they near the garage they slow to a crawl, and finally a squealing halt outside an open bay where a blonde troglodyte is bent over a Trabant. She lifts a finger off the wheel and points at him.
"That's Georg. His favorite hobbies are leering at my backside and informing on people that he doesn't like."
"Good to know," Waverly says.
"How long?" she asks, turning to him.
"Days. Weeks. Maybe Years. We really don't know when they might make contact.
She smiles, as if he is highly amusing. "No. How long should I take to repair your car?
"Ah. Let's say three weeks, and I'll be back in one to check on the progress." He has one foot out the door when he turns to her. "Happy Birthday by the way."
MFU
Gaby watches Waverly as he walks off down the street towards the cabstand, all the while fighting the urge to trace the outlines of the card tucked securely into her bra.
"You okay?" Georg is staring at her. "You look worried."
"I'm fine. Had a near miss with the tow truck and I'm still a little shaky. We need to work on the steering and clutch."
"We've needed to work on it for years."
He helps her get Waverly's car positioned on the jacks in her bay. She smiles and gives him a squeeze on the shoulder. Because all things considered, she thinks it's a good idea keep him close. He goes red, and shuffles back to the Trabant.
She props the hood up on the Citroen and sinks into her work, lost in thought. It was strange (and more than a bit unpalatable) to think of the Nazis as her way out from behind the wall. What would they do to her when they made contact? Would they torture her first? Use her as a hostage? Both are distinct possibility she thinks. Hopefully, they will try to sell her on a reunion with Udo (She has long ago stopped thinking of him as father).
She leans over to inspect the radiator and it falls out with a resounding clang! on to the concrete floor. Georg is suddenly by her side, wiping his hands on a rag. "Want to go dancing tonight?"
"Yes."
He brightens. "It's a date."
With disaster she thinks.
Late Night, June 26, 1963
Gaby stands in the back of the truck, watching East Berlin fade into the background as they drive away. The sky above the wall is lit up with searchlights and she can hear the Russian shouting orders from the minefield. She hopes he makes it out okay. She's seen enough violence in her life to not wish it on anyone, even if that someone had only moments before been trying to do her in.
When the wall has faded from view, she sits with Solo on the bench seat. He produces a blanket and wraps her snugly in it. She lays her head on his shoulder and he wraps an arm around her waist. They ride in silence, listening to the flap of the canvas walls and the drone of the engine as the truck rumbles and snorts through the dark streets. Soon, they come to a gentle halt.
Solo smiles. His teeth are dazzling in the darkness. "We're here."
Gaby waves off his proffered arm and jumps down easily from the truck bed and looks around. They are on a dark residential street. The air is cool and wet. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.
"Welcome to the West, Miss Teller."
She lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Thank you."
He places a hand at the small of her back and guides her towards what appears to be a darkened apartment house. "Now, if you'll just follow me."
"This is a hotel?"
"Well…no. Safe house actually. But the food and service are excellent and there's plenty of hot water and clean towels. I've even taken the liberty of procuring you some pajamas and a toothbrush."
They'd better not be sexy pajamas she thinks. Although if being friendly with you means safe passage out of Germany, I'm prepared to make that sacrifice. They've got good antibiotics now I hear.
They enter the slumbering building and climb the shadowy stairs to the fourth floor. Solo keys open the door and steps aside, waving her in ahead of him.
The apartment is exceedingly banal and not at all chic. It smells of stale smoke and coffee left on the burner.
Solo sets his briefcase down on a side table. "The water closet is down the hall to the left if you'd like to wash up. I'll make us something to eat."
She finds Solo in the kitchen. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and he wears an apron. "Here," he says, handing her a glass of wine.
She takes it and sinks wearily into a plastic chair against the wall. "I wonder how long it will take them to get our Russian friend out of the mine field?"
Solo looks up from his cutting board and grins. "Hours."
"It's a wonder he didn't blow up."
"He's probably going to wish he had, once they get him out and he has to explain why he lost you."
This thought makes her stomach cramp.
Solo uses the knife to push chopped mushrooms from the cutting board into the pan. "Tell me about your uncle."
"Uncle Rudi? He's my mother's oldest brother. He's from Munich. He used to come visit once a month. Always brought chocolate. I haven't seen him since I was eighteen. He works in Italy for a shipping company. Vinceguerra, I believe. He sends me a card every year on my birthday." She swirls the dregs of her wine. **"What's that? It smells like feet."
MFU
She's halfway through her dinner when Solo pushes through the kitchen door. His face is impassive.
"That was your boss?"
He nods.
She forks another bite of his rice dish into her mouth and washes it down with the rest of her wine. "Charming man. We should introduce him to our Russian friend."
"I take it you like the risotto?"
She shrugs. "I'm hungry." She reaches for the wine bottle only to discover it is empty. "Be honest. You make this dish for women and expect them to soak through their panties."
His smile could melt ice. "Is it working?"
"Not even a little." She sets her fork down and pushes back from the table. "I'm going to bed."
"Second door on the right," he says.
She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Wake me before you leave."
MFU
Her room is just big enough for a narrow bed that sags in the middle, and a chipped nightstand. A pair of blue cotton pajamas is folded on her pillow. She shivers as she strips: the ebb of adrenaline and excess of wine have left her feeling cold and boneless. She slips under a mountain of blankets, trying to mentally rehearse her call to Waverly in the morning; but she can't. All she can think of is the young Russian, and his face as he dropped from view behind the wall.