Illya Kuryakin, Russian KBG's finest agent is called upon by his handler and supervisor to meet in an obscure area in Berlin, East Germany. He knows why he is being called, he would either be getting a reprimand and dismissal or that he will be tasked to take down the little brunette agent that took the blueprint from him at the last minute from his latest mission. Illya curses this girl with every Russian cell in his body, she put his life on the line after what she did. He is hoping that his mission will be to take out the girl more than anything else.
Napoleon rouses from sleep after hearing three soft knocks on the simple apartment door he is renting. He's expecting something like this to happen after the disastrous mission of retrieving a blueprint. He hears a shuffle under his front door and knows that he is being expected by his handler. This could only mean two things for him: chase the girl who swiped the mission from his hands or finish the Russian giant and then chase the the girl who swiped the mission from his hands. He is fascinated by the girl, and if he can, he will offer her a spot in the CIA as one of their spies. She has potential, he recognizes, and would he be sad if the Russians will put a mark on her. Equally fascinating is the giant of a Russian blond on the mission. The disgust on his face when he knew he was defeated amused Solo more than anything. If his mission is to track the girl and the Russian, Solo would be more than willing to accept the job.
—
Illya sits in an inconspicuous cafe with his handler sitting right across. His handler lights a cigarette upon sitting down and sets a manila envelope in front of him. He sits expectantly waiting for his handler to deal with the blow but the handler, an old man wearing a black bowler hat, just sat there smoking a cigarette and lighting another one in between sips of what he assumes is black tea.
Another older man of similar air approaches their table and liberally pulls a chair to sit. He nods his head to Illya's way before starting a conversation with his handler. "How's the wife?" he asks. An American? Illya concludes in his mind.
"Better. And your wife?" his handler responds to the old man.
"Worried." The old man spots a waitress and orders brewed coffee before continuing, "He'll be here in a minute."
The two old men sat in companionable silence while drinking their beverage of choice. Why is an American spy talking to his handler? He asks himself.
"Morning, gentlemen." The lilt in the voice is undoubtedly American. He also liberally pulls a chair beside Illya and sets a pair of sunglasses on the desk. Illya Kuryakin could not believe himself that Napoleon Solo, in open daylight, is sitting beside him as if they have been colleagues for a very long time. The old man must be his handler, but why is the CIA contacting the KGB?
"We don't need introductions, I assume you know the KGB agent sitting beside you?" The American older man starts their conversation.
"Red Peril. How's the back?" He smiles at Illya, a smirk more alike.
"Cowboy, how is your head?" He eyes Solo from the edge of eyesight. Solo responds with an even bigger smile.
As they were about to continue their banter, another man in an impeccable suit approaches their table and pulls down a chair to sit. He is wearing a grey suit, his hair with wisps of white near the temple.
"Ah, I see that you have all been gathered." The English spy, noting from his more than obvious accent, greets the men at the table. "Good morning, Saunders, Oleg." Illya wonders quietly why the English spy is very friendly with the CIA and KGB handlers, they both greet him as Waverly in return. "Shall we begin then?"
Illya's handler reaches for the resting envelope on the middle of the table and opens it to lay down photographs on their table. Illya looks at it to see a girl posing with cars in a dirty jumpers of mechanic. He observes her to be a small girl, barely rising above the height of the cars. He eyes one of the pictures and the girl is in a white shift dress donning plastic eyeglasses, clip on earrings and a sunhat. He seems to find something familiar with the brunette.
"This," the American CIA handler begins, "is The Mechanic."
"She's my agent, Gaby Teller. She's my best agent and she has the blueprint." Waverly begins. "The thing about this blueprint, we found out after her successful retrieval, is that it is not complete. The missing blueprint of the satellite is still out, in terrorist hands. We think it also safe to assume that the blueprint my little mechanic retrieved has a copy."
The Russian handlers continues, "We need to retrieve the copy and the missing part of the satellite."
"I do not understand." Illya starts on his, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "Why I have to work with this corrupt and criminal individual?"
"I understand your concern, Red Peril, but seeing that a small woman was able to outsmart you, you may be needing more help in the future even it means I am that help."
"You are no help. You are tied to chair by the same little chop shop girl."
"It amuses me, truly, to see you two have been bested by my mechanic. But this mission requires that we all work together."
"Your little chop shop girl shot me with a tranquilizer."
"But I didn't cripple you, didn't I?"
The husky voice that haunted Illya after his failed mission startles him. Solo is clearly amused at her appearance. She pulls the last remaining chair beside Illya and sits herself comfortably. She' wearing a checkered frock and platform heels, not minding to remove the plastic sunglasses covering her eyes.
"Napoleon Solo, your new partner." Solo throws a friendly hand towards Gaby and shakes her hand. "I'm a big fan of your signature move, I must say."
Gaby smiles at Solo's comment, finding that working with him should be a breeze. The giant blond, however, would be a mountain of a task. Literally and figuratively.
"Thank you. And our blond friend here isn't, I should assume." She smiles sweetly at Illya, trying to rouse him from the anger simmering inside. It's too obvious to Gaby that he's seething, his fingers flexing and drumming the table in front of them.
"Illya Kuryakin." He curtly nods at her and turns his head back to the group of men in front of him.
"Mmm, clearly not a fan." She whispers to herself. She removes her sunglasses and hails for a waiter to approach her. "Vodka, please."
"You're all going to Argentina to chase the missing part of the blueprint to build the satellite. Pretty cosy there this time of the year." Waverly tries to make their mission more palatable.
"The recent rising of unrest everywhere is a good breeding ground for this type of intelligence to stay undetected." Illya's handler informs the trio.
"Solo you will pose as a tourist. Gaby and Illya, you will be newlyweds, of course, on a honeymoon." Illya scowls at the ridiculous idea while Gaby sputters her drink.
"I'm going to enjoy this trip." Solo smiles to himself knowingly.
"I may be drinking at 11am but I am not yet too drunk to be forced into this." Gaby looks at Waverly a little annoyed.
"There is nothing more to discuss. Retrieving the blueprint is your priority." The CIA handler produces another manila envelope and puts it in the center of the table. "This is your mission, good luck." With that, he drinks the last of his coffee and stands. The Russian handler also stands up to shake the CIA's hand before greeting Waverly who is also standing and participating in the pleasantries.
"This is a good time for a drink." Solo mentions but never orders, putting on his designer sunglasses.
Gaby has already ordered another round of drink, Illya lost count already, and downs it in one go. She has also put on her eyeglasses and stares into the distance.
Illya takes Gaby's pictures from the table and looks at them one by one. "I like my women strong," he whispers to himself a little too loud.
Gaby scoffs loudly and pours herself another drink.
"I suppose congratulations are one the way." Solo invites the two to a conversation. Gaby looks at him through his sunglasses, "Why this is too pleasing for you Solo, I don't quite understand." She responds.
"This is going to be an exciting mission, don't you think. Why did Waverly call you a mechanic?" Solo continues. He sees in the corner of his eye Illya is not happy with the development of his good friendship with Gaby.
"Because I am a mechanic. That's how they found me. I used to work on old military cars and Waverly found me, that's the short of it."
"We are to leave in an hour." Illya interjects in the conversation. "We should go," he prepares to stand and reaches a hand to Gaby. "Wife."
"Easy there, my Russian friend. I'm not yet your wife, we're not yet in dangerous territories." She bristles at the touch of his hand on hers.
Solo was busy opening the contents of the envelope with their mission and produces two rings from it. "I suppose this will make it official, then." He places the rings in front of Illya on the table and the Russian picks them up.
"Congratulations, you are now my wife." He turns Gaby's hand and drops the two rings on her palm. One is a simple golden band and the other a golden ban with a black pearl sitting on the middle with small diamonds surrounding it.
