Author's Note: This didn't turn out exactly how I wanted, but hopefully it's still okay!
Illya's having a decidedly difficult time as a server. He'd done trivial work like this before, rinsing and cleaning dishes, arranging food on trays, making sure it was filled on the buffet line. This wasn't his first rodeo, as the Americans liked to put it. The difficulty of this particular job, in the moment, was entirely on the fault of the head chef. Illya didn't know his name and he didn't care to. He'd already rebelled as much as he was going to allow himself to, as much as he could afford.
He'd covertly spilled wine onto the man's white jacket and that would be impossible to get out.
It was a stupid satisfaction and he could recognize it, but it didn't keep him from indulging in it. Every time the head chef came by with something nasty to say, Illya's Russian pride could get a fairly soothing stroke by just looking at that stain the chef had yet to see. It helped him keep his chin up.
As much fun in kitchen politics as Illya was having, he also remembered that he was here for a mission. He'd snuck in his surveillance equipment earlier, set it up in a closet that wasn't to be used and that he'd stolen the key for. Every now and again, he'd head towards the closet, head inside, and put on the earphones to see if Farouk Kotil was talking about anything interesting. He wasn't. At all. Dry conversations and fake compliments for those that came to see them.
Illya was listening now, the door locked behind him and the head chef probably looking for where his server went, but he didn't care in the moment. It was about time for Gaby to make her move, they were at their approved times. He hadn't had a chance to go back out and let her know the mission was a go, but he had faith that she would still get the job done even if he wasn't listening.
She was good at this. He wasn't entirely sure of all the training Waverly gave her before he and Solo had shown up at her garage, but he thought part of her success came from natural talent. She had a knack for this job. Rough and tumble, that was her personality but in a way Illya could never be. Smooth when she needed to be. She resembled Solo in those ways and he begrudgingly admitted that in that department, and probably only that department, Solo was better than Illya. The man was smooth.
The tracker he'd put on Farouk Kotil's table picked up all the conversation and Illya straightened his back slightly when he could clearly hear Gaby's voice. She introduced herself as Wanda Jordan. Not an overly German name, but it was a purposeful thing. Kotil enjoyed the Westernization of his surroundings. He would surely appreciate the name.
"It's a lovely party," he heard her say.
Kotil's voice came in clearer, closer to the tracker Illya had slipped onto the table. "Thank you. Would you care for a seat?"
A week ago, he wouldn't have cared sending Gaby in to talk with a mark. He'd done so with people before on missions. It wasn't a matter of Illya not believing in his ability to handle it if things went wrong. It was never that. It was the feel of Gaby's hand clutching at his while she was passed out drunk. Even if she didn't remember it, it had been a long, long time since anyone had done that. Shown that they wanted him to stay.
Even if she hadn't meant it, he still didn't know how to handle it.
He tried to listen to the rest of their conversation. There's something about accidents and horses, the cover story exactly what they'd come up with in the down time they'd had before this party. But there was such a racket from the kitchen outside the closet Illya growled slightly and pulled the earphones down. He poked his head out slightly, seeing the coast was clear and closed the door behind him, straightening his jacket like he hadn't just been crouched in a too small closet for a too tall Russian.
From around the corner, he could hear the head chef yelling. Turkish. Not a language he understood except for bits and pieces, but nothing substantial for him to be able to know what the man was on about. He rounded the corner himself, standing there and taking in the scene. The head chef was throwing his weight around, like he had since the moment Illya had walked in there. But there was a young man in front of him, small and skinny, probably had never been in a fight in his life and the way he flinched under the tirade had Illya steeling his jaw.
"What does he yell about?" Illya asked, leaning closer to one of the workers near to him.
The worker looked up at him, speaking in an Italian accented voice. A long way from home, just like Illya. "The Bourguignon was undercooked."
"The…" Illya trailed off, not bothering to repeat the words. That was what had caused such ire? Illya had a temper, but it was usually brought about by insults to his heritage, his family, himself. Fashion, at times when he was arguing with Solo. But food?
Before Illya could get back to his surveillance, the head chef lifted a hand and backhanded the worker in front of him. Illya's chin tipped back, the entire kitchen had gone quiet, all eyes on the chef and his abuse.
Illya knew. He knew without a doubt he should just go back and pay attention to Gaby and Kotil. The most important thing. Don't blow missions over things that are inconsequential. But there were very few things he liked less than a lack of respect. And for just the briefest of moments, it wasn't a young Turkish worker standing there in front of a head chef. It was a young Russian blamed for embezzlement standing in front of a Siberian guard.
This wasn't Siberia, but the cold in Illya's blood could damn well make it feel like it.
The sigh that escaped him would be the only apology he gave to his teammates.
—
Gaby had found confidence in Solo's words. She approached the table with her chin held high, casual smile on her face. If Solo believed she was capable, even if he were just trying to boost her confidence, it had worked. Farouk Kotil was a good looking man, evident with his riches and his success. He reminded her of Alexander Vinciguerra and even though she had no true love for either men, she did hope that Kotil's fate would differ. She'd rather see people rot in a cell than carved open on a mountainside like Alexander.
As she approached the table, Kotil glanced up, his smile becoming something curious as he caught her eyes. Behind him, Bruna, the new bodyguard, stood with her hands folded in front of her. Soldier's stance squaring her shoulders. Gaby tried not to be intimidated, remembering that not only was Solo somewhere behind her should things get rough, but somewhere, Illya would be listening to the entire conversation.
"Good evening," she greeted, speaking English. She didn't know whether Kotil spoke German or Italian, but English seemed a common language for the man.
"Good evening," Kotil responded back, his voice rich like honey and Gaby's smile widened easily. She could see why he'd been referred to as a Prince Charming. "To whom do I now share a pleasant company with?"
Gaby held out her hand, which he took easily, bringing her fingers to her lips. "Wanda Jordan, Beyefendi." she told him. "I am from Germany, visiting a dear friend of mine. She invited me to your party. Said they were…like no other."
Kotil seemed pleased to hear that. "Please," he greeted her. "I am Farouk Kotil. But you, may call me Farouk." He held onto her hand and Gaby made no motion of trying to pull it back, though it didn't pass by her notice that it was something of a forward gesture on his part. Letting her know that he was interested. "And? What do you think of my party?" he asked her, finally letting go of her fingers.
"It's a lovely party."
"Thank you," Kotil nodded, obliged. He held his hand out towards a spare chair and Gaby nodded her appreciation back. "Would you care for a seat?"
She was already sitting as she said, "I would love to."
Sipping at his drink, Kotil's eyes never left Gaby's face and she couldn't quite tell if the scrutiny was desire, suspicion or a combination of the two. She knew he had only recently had his girlfriend killed. Beverly Dawson. The death of the British agent had been what sparked them to even come here. It was easy to keep that in mind as she now sat in Kotil's presence.
"Were you in an accident recently?" Kotil asked, his head tipped back, curiosity still painted on his features.
Like she had forgotten, Gaby glanced down at her exposed scrapes and bruises on her arm. There was similar on her chin and even more on her legs. They would all hear, superficial at most. But she nodded at that. "A silly one," she admitted, as though embarrassed.
"How so?" Kotil asked.
"It was a riding lesson," she told him and saw that small perk of his brow. She'd caught his interest certainly. "I'm no good with horses. Much better behind a betting ticket than in a saddle. Have you ever been riding?"
A smirk played across the man's face. "I believe I'm much the same," he said, leaning forward to set his drink down on the table. Gaby lifted a brow. "Though, I've taken my skills much farther than a simple betting ticket. I am a breeder, the best in all of Turkey."
"Are you?" Gaby asked, trying to sound as interested as she possibly could. All that research was about to come in handy.
Only, Kotil opened his mouth to continue the conversation, but a loud ruckus from behind them had them both turning to look and see what was causing the noise. A chef, in a white jacket with a wine stain along his back came storming out from one of the doors. He was holding a rag to his head, staunching the flow of blood form some head wound.
Gaby's eyes instantly sought out Solo. There was a twinge of worry, but mostly exasperation because she probably already knew what had happened. Someone had sparked the Russian's ire. She'd meant it when she'd told him he had to learn to control his temper. When she caught sight of Solo, she could only see him roll his eyes upwards slightly before he took on the air again of someone as curious and interested as the rest of the guests. His gaze did travel her way and a slight widening of his eyes was the only sign she needed. He was telling her to try and salvage this.
"What on Earth," Kotil said under his breath before he stood and Gaby did as well, her mouth opening to try and catch him. He didn't allow it. "You'll have to excuse me," he tried to move pass her.
"Of course," she said, not wanting to seem too eager.
He paused when he was a short ways away, turning and pointing back at her. She lifted a brow curiously. "I have to attend to this, but…there's a race tomorrow. One of my horses will be in it. Perhaps, I'll see you there?"
Gaby nodded, acting shy and pleased. "That would be wonderful."
"Very good," Kotil agreed and then turned to go try and calm his boisterous chef.
