Solo had been with a girl from Istanbul once. Though not actually in the country themselves. In Greece, in fact. She'd been fleeing, he'd been helping and she'd wanted to thank him. It hadn't been necessary, he'd assured her. It didn't matter. The woman had known what she'd wanted.

Now, in a hotel room in Istanbul, he thought of her. It was the scent, he thought. This whole country had a scent to it. Not bad. Familiar. The hotel was no different, only he wasn't sharing it with a beautiful raven haired woman. Currently, he was standing in the room with a small German mechanic and a Russian super agent. Absent, was probably the most charming Brit he'd ever met in his life and that was saying something. Waverly had gone off to claim a room of his own.

It was a suite, of course. Several beds and a lounge area, which was currently being set up with equipment they thought they would need. They all had their separate affairs, but all centered around the same person. Kotil. The kind of dangerous criminal Solo had rubbed elbows with on numerous occasions before he'd been recruited into the CIA.

"I've never been to a ball," Gaby said, drawing Solo's attention. She'd been walking around the room, peeking out the window and looking at the fancy furniture. This was a long way from her chop shop in East Berlin. Fancy parties, expensive hotel rooms and clothes she'd probably only dreamed of wearing when she was a little girl. She hadn't been paid much on a mechanic's salary.

She was adjusting like a dream, he had to give her that.

"Just think of it as a fancy soiree with lavish spreads, structured dancing and everyone dressed in their finest, most expensive clothing," Solo told her casually.

Gaby turned to give him a look as she leaned against the back of Illya's chair. "I'm a fine dancer," she said and he saw Illya smirk. He'd missed something. It was obvious.

"I know," he told her, not liking to be a man ever caught off guard. "A ballerina, if I'm not mistaken."

"I would have never guessed this," Illya says sarcastically and now Solo knows for sure that he missed something. The look Gaby gives him could pierce metal. Good thing Kuryakin was made of something stronger.

Focusing instead on the man who wasn't insulting her dancing, she walked from behind Illya's chair, bumping the table where he was working on making sure the wires of the tracking device were in order. He made a face which was promptly ignored. "How did you know?" she asked.

"I read your file," he told her.

"He does this to everyone," Illya commented dryly.

Solo smirked. "I like to know who I'm working with."

"Rome wasn't good enough?" Gaby asked and Solo wondered if that was defensiveness he heard in her tone, saw in her eyes. Did she think she hadn't proven herself to him? She had. She was capable. Untrained, but capable.

"That was before I knew you were an agent, Gaby," he said. "It makes you look over someone's file with a...different set of glasses."

Gaby scoffed, turning to look down at Illya. "Did you read it too?"

"Of course," Illya said, no qualms at admitting it.

"And?"

Illya had the decency to look up at her a little wide eyed. For a KGB agent, Solo found his sense with women was a little...stunted. He thought about his answer for a moment before smiling up at her. "I like that you are professional driver," he told her.

"Better than you are," she shot back at him. Solo had to agree. That'd proven that the first night.

"I prefer boats," Illya waved his hand, going back to the wiring work.

Solo merely took in a breath, noting that it probably wasn't wise in the moment to remind the man that the last time they were on a boat that was driven by him, it had blown up and Illya had almost drowned. Had drowned, in fact. And despite everything, even the fact that Peril had been ready to point a gun at his back just a day before, he was glad he'd gone back for the man. He'd never admit it and he'd never expect a thank you, either.

"Gaby," Solo drew her attention. "You may know how to pirouette, but do you know how to waltz?"

"Would you like me to teach you?" The sassy sway to her shoulders had Solo smirking. She started to head over, her arms held in the proper position for a waltz, with an invisible partner.

Solo bowed his head affectionately. "Maybe you'd like to show me on our super agent?"

"He doesn't dance," she stated matter-of-factly.

"One day, you'll have to tell me the story behind this...tension in the room," Solo waved his hand between the two of them, giving Illya a look. He knew the man had a soft spot for Gaby. Had seen that transformation happen almost overnight. He also could recall the Russian's hurt accent when he'd proclaimed that it just wasn't the same, Gaby betraying Solo versus Gaby betraying Illya. He hadn't argued. He knew it hadn't been. It wasn't. Solo wasn't the one Gaby had eyes for and the tall Russian wasn't exactly hard to read when he was lying.

Where that was his shortcoming, as a spy, he made up for it in other accounts.

"There's no story," Gaby said, walking back to go behind Illya, towards the beds, perhaps to her case. "He just doesn't like to dance."

"Two left feet, perhaps," Solo called and when she was out of earshot, he averted his eyes to Illya. "Blowing it already, Peril?"

"There is nothing to blow," Illya said dismissively and at the incredibly arched eyebrow Solo rose, waiting for those words to sink in on the Russian, he clucked his tongue and waved off Solo in disgust.

The man merely chuckled. "We need to buy you a gown, of course," Solo's voice rose so Gaby could hear them again.

"Maybe you'll even let me pick it out this time," Gaby called back.

"Now where's the fun in that?" Solo tried.

The door to the room opened and both Illya and Solo turned to glance at the newcomer. Waverly. Working for a Brit. Solo didn't know what to truly think about it all. This arrangement seemed tenuous. Built on necessity instead of any sort of trust. Hell, he'd had the Russians ready to kill him over a computer disk only a day before. What would happen the next time they came across similar information? Would he always have to look over his shoulder at his partners? Or worse, would he always have to tell his own organization no?

"Settling in, I see," Waverly greeted, nodding his head pleasantly at each of them. Gaby reemerged, having set up her bags, unpacked a few things near one of the beds.

Solo turned to regard the man, still a happy smile on his face. "It seems we're going to get rather cozy in here." While he's slept in worse places, slept in bunks with soldiers to his left and right, he'd thought he was long since passed that. At least when he was undercover and used safe houses, there were rooms that separated them all. There was always a place he could retreat to that could be considered private. This, with Gaby and Illya, was anything but. He didn't know how the two had put up with each other in Rome the way they did.

"You're a team now, Solo," Waverly answered with that understanding smile on his face.

Gaby stepped forward some more, coming to stand next to where Illya was still seated. "We're going shopping for a gown for Kotil's ball," she told him. "I'm thinking something...modest." Her head turned to look at the scrapes along her arm. There were mirrored bruises and markings on her leg from the car flipping, thanks to Solo.

"Tell me, Gaby," Solo interrupted. "Are you anything of an equestrian?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, frowning at him.

Waverly smiled and Illya looked up from his work. They both already knew what he was getting to. "Horse racing, or, showing. Farouk Kotil has owned three of the last five champions in the region. He'll of course be drawn in by your beauty, interested in the bruises. Or...vice versa. You'll tell him you were taking a newly purchased pure breed for a test ride and...it didn't work out. Russian horse, of course. Known for their mal-temper."

Illya sat up a little straighter. "Known for their strength," he countered. "A Russian horse would win. You should make it American bred."

Gaby waved her hand, cutting both of them off. "One snag, fellas. I don't know the first thing about horses. Couldn't I have raced a car, instead?"

"Kotil enjoys horses," Illya told her, his voice gentling. "You give him something in common and...you will have much to talk about."

"Ah, so you do know how to charm people, Peril," Solo quipped.

Waverly spoke up. "It's a solid plan. Gaby, we'll get you up to date on equestrian knowledge. The ball is in three days, we'll have you ready on time." The face she made had Solo smiling a little. She'd been able to be herself in her first mission as British Intelligence. Now, undercover, she'd have to acquire a lot of knowledge on an assortment of topics. She could handle it. She was a smart woman. "As for you two, Solo and Kuryakin - you'll head to Dawson's safe house tonight. I needn't remind you to be careful, we're not sure if the house has been made."

"Anything in particular we're looking for, sir?" Solo asked.

"Answers, Solo," Waverly said simply. "Other than that, more answers."

It didn't escape Solo that he didn't argue the fact that he'd be working once again side by side with Kuryakin. Maybe the thought had crossed his mind to say he worked better alone, but it never became more than a thought. They were a team. Waverly had said so himself.

"Oh, and, Kuryakin," Waverly said. The Russian lifted his head up to look at him. "I do believe you have a guest downstairs. Hiding his face in a newspaper in the lobby. Oleg always was a snappy dresser, wasn't he?"

Illya's face steeled. Solo took a breath and wondered just what Waverly had told the KGB to get them to allow Illya to come here. And if it was a ruse. Waverly was aware of it and there was the possibility that Illya would go downstairs and tell his superior of it.

Putting down the tools in his hands, he stood, that grim look still there. "I will handle it."

Clearing his throat, Waverly looked up at the man. "The business with the disc...-"

"It is not problem," Illya cut him off, heading for the door.

"Kuryakin," Waverly stopped him and Solo stood a little straighter with how cold the look on Illya's face was when he turned around. He'd been the recipient of that look on several occasions. The first, when he'd pushed Illya about his background. A poor cafe table had met it's end that day. The second, in a hotel room in Rome when Illya had been reaching into his jacket. It was a steeled look. One that prepared the man, shut him down to emotional assault around him. Or tried to keep it trapped inside if it was already brewing. Perhaps he expected Waverly to threaten him. To order him to disobey the KGB, whatever it was they wanted. Waverly did neither. "I know you'll handle it."

Illya's face softened, only in the slightest and only because Solo was trained to look for it. The Russian merely nodded and closed the door behind him as he left.

"Who's Oleg?" Gaby asked immediately.

"A leash holder," Solo told her, not quite hiding the bitter taste in his words. He turned to Waverly. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Waverly sighed. "Let's hope not."