August in Nice, France. 3 months after CA: Civil War

Valeria Markoff sat in her rented BMW, spine straight as a new pencil, and stared at the sprawling Italian estate of Andre Rostov. In all the years she had been working for Mr. Rostov never before had she been summoned to his home, the mansion itself was bigger than the tenement where she'd grown-up in Moscow. The well-manicured lawn with its topiaries and riotous blooms of summer flowers were probably the envy of many a botanical garden. Despite the beauty of the location the fact she'd been pulled off her latest assignment so abruptly and brought here, left her hands tingling and she began sweating under her designer dress.

The leather of her seat crackled beneath her and she lightened her grip on the steering wheel. she sighed, a little disgusted with herself, and reached out to open the car door. "Sitting in the car is not going to get this over with." She thought, swinging her long, tanned legs out onto the drive. Her high heels clicking decisively on the pathway she headed for the entrance and pressed the doorbell. Trying to ignore the oppressive summer heat she ran a hand through sable brown hair, long enough to veil her shoulders, smoothing it as she waited for someone to answer.

After what seemed an intolerable amount of time the door was finally opened by a short, stocky older woman with steel-blue hair. The older woman, with her proper black dress buttoned all the way up to her collarbone, reminded Valeria of a spinster from a historical romance novel.

"My name is Valeria Markoff, Monsieur Rostov is expecting me." Valeria told the other woman politely.

The maid clucked disbelievingly, her rheumy, opaque gray eyes surveying Valeria with disdain. "I highly doubt that. The monsieur does not bring women like you into his house."

Valeria's body stiffened, her eyes turning to the color of honey on fire. "I work for Monsieur Rostov. He requested that I meet him here." She spat back, through gritted teeth. She had grown up poor and she was used to people like Rostov's maid treating her like she as if trash. But that didn't mean she had to accept or tolerate their attitudes.

The maid stepped back rigidly, disapproval radiating off her in waves. With a hand knotted by arthritis, she waved Valeria inside. "Wipe your feet. I don't need you tracking your mud through the house."

"Don't you have something better to worry about?" Valeria hissed under her breath, following the older woman through the entryway. "Like knitting or eating prunes or dying?" she found the house cool and inviting in contrast to the late afternoon heat, even if the old woman was not.

As Valeria was escorted into an elegantly decorated office she quickly took in the décor. The lighting low, strategic, the wealth of the owner on full display. She was struck by the scent, a mixture of beeswax polish, old wood, and a faint overlay of leather. Everything about the place was genteel and old fashioned from the antique tiffany lamps to the luxurious rug under her feet. As she halted her stride to stand in front of the teak wood desk she held her body rigged, to stifle the urge to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. Nervousness made her feel nauseated, almost as if she had two hearts frantically beating in her chest, instead of one.

She guardedly studied the three men there with her. The oldest of the three, Rostov, did not tolerate failure. Observed from a distance he was an unthreatening man, a fragment in the night, a no one. Those who met him for the first time often made the mistake of dismissing him as someone's kind, portly old grandfather. But Valeria knew that was far from the truth. Rostov was brutal and unforgiving when it came to failure. This slightly balding, gray-haired man seated at his desk was no one's kind old anything.

Yet it was not Rostov that she truly feared at the moment. No, the youngest of the men, the tall, muscular, redhead, standing behind her. He was the one who made her recoil slightly in her own skin. He always had the same look in his glacial blue eyes, a promise of torture and death. In the two years she had been working for Hydra he had never uttered a single word around her. No one had ever spoken his name. He was a man without a past or a future, he was a ghost. When he was present, all, she felt was an assault of apprehension and terror.

Setting his crystal tumbler of Vodka down on his desk and eyeing Valeria questioningly, Rostov spoke first. "Miss Markoff, how was your trip? I assume you had no difficulty getting here." He inquired conversationally.

Valeria was thrown by both his tone and his question, Andre Rostov was not known for idle pleasantries. "The trip was unremarkable, there were no problems" She responded neutrally, trying to discern Rostov's mood. Her confusion dancing across her face.

Rostov sat back in his chair and clapped his large hands together, his tone turning more formal. "Good. Then we can get down to business. Where is the book?" The look in his molasses brown eyes turning anticipatory awaiting her answer.

Valeria, her muscles tightening even more, hesitated a moment before answering. "It has only been two months, I have not found it yet. Herr Zemo was incredibly diligent in hiding the book."

A vein in Rostov's forehead throbbed and his eyes narrowed so fast they nearly sparked. He leaned forward in his chair, the leather groaning in response, as he bellowed "Foolish woman, do think we are the only one's looking for the book? Time was of the essence. Apparently, I made a grave mistake in trusting you to complete the task."

Valeria swallowed and her brows began to sweat. She knew Rostov expected perfection and expediency from his agents. But she hadn't known he would give her such a limited timetable to accomplish the mission. "Sir, if you just give me a little more time I'm sure that I can complete the mission." Valeria pleaded, her nails digging into her hands. "It has been impossible for me to get access to Zemo while he is imprisoned on the Raft. I have had to use other methods of inquiry."

"And what have these other methods achieved? Are you any closer to finding the book?" Rostov queried dismissively, having already decided what to do about her failure.

Valeria faltered before answering. "No. Zemo's movements after escaping Germany have been almost impossible to track. It's almost as if he vanished into thin air before turning back up in Siberia. That is why I need more time." Her voice sounding much calmer than she felt. Inside, her organs were grinding themselves into a nervous pulp. Her stomach twisting itself out, jerking on her trachea.

Rostov sat back in his chair once again, now bored with the conversation and her. "Then as I said, I made a mistake in choosing you for this mission." The look on his face and in his eyes cruel and unforgiving.

Valeria took a step back in alarm. The moment she had reported that she could not locate the book with the Winter Soldier's trigger words; she knew Rostov would not let her live. No amount of pleading or begging would appeal to his humanity. Rostov had no humanity. Those who worked for him where no more than chess pieces to be moved around the board, sacrificed in his game. Valeria meant no more to him than a pawn, less now that she had failed. But the part of Valeria that wished to survive the night arose within her, she had to at least try.

She turned toward the third man in the room, General Lukin, assessing her chances with him. The General was a broad-shouldered man, his goatee doing nothing to subtract from his natural air of military bearing. His hair was stark black streaked with white or, in certain light, stark white shot through with black. Valeria was careful not to let her gaze linger on the jagged scar that ran from his cheek up between his blue eyes. Instead, she focused on the Van Gogh that hung over the leather settee that General Lukin was seated on. Like the Degas on the wall behind the teak desk, she was certain the art work were pieces that had been classified as missing since World War II. Stolen by the Nazis.

The General had taken the news without comment. Perhaps she could negotiate for another chance with him. "Sir, if you just give me another…"

"Silence! You've had two months and you failed. You are no longer useful to me!" Rostov roared, cutting her off as he stood, rage rising from his stomach to his brain like mercury in a thermometer stuck in boiling water. His breathing was rapid and his face flushed from surpressing the urge to attack the woman himself. But killing her in his home would be a mistake and he had come too far in his plans to make such a stupid mistake now. Reigning his temper in, he continued. "You seek some way to resist, escape your punishment. There is none."

"I am sorry my dear," Aleksander Lukin responded as he brushed a piece of lint off his pant leg. His voice sounding almost paternal and sympathetic. Although in truth, he didn't care either way what Rostov had decided to do with the woman. She was Rostov's concern not his.

It would be the last voice Valeria would ever hear. She sensed the younger man moving toward her, but she was incapable of doing anything about it. Terror like she had never felt before crippled her. She could feel the sweat gathering on her skin. The fear smothering her, her muscles becoming frozen and her mind paralyzed by hopelessness. "No!" was her last pleading thought before the blow to the back of her head rendered her unconscious.

Rostov's lips curved into a bored smile as he observed the crumpled form laying inert on his floor. In a pleasant voice, he spoke to his young compatriot "You will take care of her, yes?"

The younger man looked at Rostov, his blue eyes flashing anticipation. He gave a curt nod and replied in a voice deep and clear, "I will ensure no one ever finds her." With that, he lifted the unconscious woman in his arms with ease. His lips curving into a deadly smile as he left the estate. He would play with this one before killing her.

Once the younger man had departed, Lukin looked at Rostov expectantly. "I suppose we will have to liberate Zemo from his prison now."

Rostov resumed his seat, leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his vodka, and calculated their next move. "I think not yet. We do not want to tip our hand too soon. No, I think it is time we called Dr. Faustus and begin the next phase."

"The book, the words, are the key to controlling the Winter Soldier. That is what matters!" Lukin responded heatedly. Slamming his drink down on a nearby table hard enough to make the antique lamp rattle in protest. The Winter Soldier should have been put under his control when General Karpov had disappeared. He had been Karpov's second-in-command. Pierce had been a fool sending the Soldier after Captain America. No, if he had been given control of the Soldier Hydra would never have lost him.

"We will get the book. But the Winter Soldier is only part of the equation." Rostov replied. "No. I think Dr. Faustus plan is our way forward. The key to controlling the Soldier is the Black Widow, just as The Winter Soldier is the key to controlling her. We need them both back where they belong and we need them serving our cause without fail."

Lukin picked up his glass of vodka and peered into it, contemplating Rostov's words for a moment. How they got the Winter Soldier back was unimportant to him. He only cared that the Soldier finally be under his control. He drained the contents from his glass. Nodding his agreement, he rose from his chair "I will contact the Doctor then and tell him we are ready to proceed."

5 Months later: Dr. Faustus' home- Germany

Aleksansder Lukin stood in Dr. Faustus sitting room, lips clamped together, his spine as rigid as a steel pole. His pale blue eyes glowering out the window at the dreary snow covered property. The trees and hedges resembling dark bones against the stone-gray skyline. A maid had lit the fireplace, likely attempting to warm the somber room, but the popping heat didn't seem to reach far enough to ward off the winter chill.

Turning away from the bleak view Lukin assessed his companion critically. Dr. Faustus remind him of a university professor, with his tweed sportscoat and matching vest. Bespectacled, trim, his dark hair graying at the temples, perhaps in his early sixties. The man was soft, he'd never seen a day of hard labor, never fought in a battle. But the Dr. was cunning and Lukin knew he needed to keep an eye on him.

Lukin's patience with Dr. Faustus and the time it was taking to put their full plan in motion snapping like a brittle twig. He violently gestured his arm in the Doctor's direction, the ash from his cigar threatening to fall on to the expensive rug. "You and Rostov have The Widow running around playing your little games, but eventually Fury is going to catch on and the Black Widow will disappear."

Faustus sighed resignedly, he'd had this exact argument with Lukin many times over the past few months. The smell of Lukin's cigar smoke assailing his nose, he took a leisurely sip of his wine before replying. "Fury knows nothing of what we're doing. He only knows what we wish him to know, General."

"I'm telling you he is going to stick his nose in our business, and we can't allow that to happen. Trust me. If he gets so much as a toehold, we will be in for the fight of our lives." Lukin snapped back.

"There is no need to worry. Rostov knows what he's doing. He has Fury running around like a dog chasing his tail." Faustus circled his long, pale finger around his wineglass faster and faster. "He is a master of deception. He schemes on more levels than you and I are capable of comprehending, Fury will catch on to nothing."

Lukin pounded a nearby table with his fist, cutting him off. "Let me tell you something about Nick Fury. I went up against him early in my career. He is the last of a breed of Americans who knows how to be every bit as dirty as the dirtiest enemy."

But Dr. Faustus unimpressed, shrugged the other man's concerns off. "Fury is of little concern to us, Romanova is what's important in this operation. We have taken steps to ensure she will not let Fury pull her out. She will see shadows at every turn, seek answers to questions she is only now learning exist to be asked. She will become completely defensive. No. Romanova will not allow Fury to dictate to her in this."

"I do not understand why all this is necessary. Wipe their memories, reprogram them. Use fear, fear is a great motivator. Why must we play these games of yours?"

"It's very simple General. As time passes fear becomes a memory. Terror becomes routine, it loses its grip. Unless, you have a way of feeding it. Which we will have once this Game, as you put it, is done." Dr. Faustus lectured, sounding every bit like a professor. He took another sip of his wine, his gray eyes steadily appraising his companion. Lukin's impatience to gain control of the Winter Soldier could prove to be a problem. If Lukin's impatience got the better of him they could lose either the Winter Soldier, Natalia, or Both.

Dr. Faustus put his wineglass down on a nearby table, shifted comfortably in his chair and continued lecturing the General. "We need to proceed with caution, you must have patience General. You will get your Winter Soldier, but we must do this correctly if you wish to retain him."

Faustus and Lukin were so absorbed in their discussion that at first they did not hear Rostov enter the sitting room. Rostov took one look at the mutinous expressions on the other men's faces and knew they had yet again been arguing like children that wanted to play with the same shiny new toy, but didn't want to share. He was also aware that the other two gentlemen had their own agenda's. At the moment they coincided with his, making them useful. However, if they began to put their agenda's before the organizations he wouldn't hesitate to eliminate them.

Plastering a polite smile on to his face Rostov greeted the other two as he crossed the room to warm his hands at the fireplace. "Gentlemen, I trust I have not kept you waiting too long."

"Of course not." Dr. Faustus replied, sounding surprised and cautious all at once. It always unnerved him that he never heard Rostov enter a room. Recovering quickly, He rose from his chair and walked over to his liquor cabinet to offer Rostov a drink. "vodka? Or will you be having wine with us?"

"Vodka I think. I need something to ward away the chill and we are celebrating tonight." Retorted the burly Russian, his high spirits resonating in his tone.

"And what exactly are we celebrating?" Lukin asked, his tone brusque, in no mood for one of Rostov's games of intrigue. He did not care to hear another story of Rostov brilliance at out maneuvering Fury.

Aware of the General's impatience Rostov turned away from the inviting fire, a triumphant smile on his face. He would not let the General spoil his good mood. Quoting one of his favorite authors he replied, "The game is afoot Gentlemen. I have heard from our young Comrade; we are ready to proceed." Accepting the glass of vodka from Dr. Faustus he asked the man "You will be leaving for Wakanda soon?"

Returning to his leather chair the Dr. replied, "Yes. I will arrive in two weeks."

"And you are certain you can get their scientists to do what we need in such a short amount of time? If you fail, we will not be given a second opportunity." The authority in Rostov's voice leaving no doubt that failure would not bode well for the Doctor.

"By the end of the month the Winter Soldier will be free from his icy cage." Faustus stated, his voice confident and unwavering. "As long as the General's men can do their part."

"My men do not fail me." Lukin cut in, bitter at the implication. He took a long pull from his cigar to soothe his temper. His men were the ones being sacrificed in this game of Rostov's and the Doctor's. The Black Widow was not known for her gentle touch and she had been living up to her well-earned reputation over the last several months.

Rostov ignored Lukin. He was not worried about the General's men, they were all well trained and loyal to the cause. Faustus ability to do his part was what concerned him. If the Dr. could not deliver on all his promises, then the work Rostov had put into this scheme so far would be for nothing. He had several pawns in play and he did not like leaving things to chance. "No." Rostov decided, thinking to himself. "I will send our young Comrade to Wakanda as well. He will ensure everything goes as planned. But first I will need him to liberate Helmut Zemo from the Raft."

Rostov took a sip of his vodka and inquired of the Dr. "And what of your reporter? Is she ready to play her part?"

Faustus scoffed and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "The woman is already half in love with Sargent Barnes, she is the type that finds his story both romantic and tragic. She is a crusader in need of a cause and I have given her one, the redemption of one James Buchanan Barnes in the eyes of the world. She'll be a relentless zealot in her pursuit." He did not understand why some people fell in love with the idea of a person without ever actually meeting them. But people like the woman Rostov spoke of were easily manipulated and she would prove to be extremely useful.

"Good." Rostov replied. Raising his glass for a toast, his words a lethal caress. "To the glorious triumph of Hydra over our enemies and the return of our children to their rightful place among us."

The other two raised their glasses. The chant of "Hail Hydra!" echoing eerily through the room.