i.
Belgorod Oblast, Russian Federation
6 December 20XX, 23:30 Moscow Time
"You had plenty money in 1922..."
Natasha Romanova smiles around the words of the song. The interior of this second-rate lounge is proof that no one has money, here and now; in 1922, it would have been even worse, she knows. All the trappings of glamor are present, but the velvet upholstery is worn and the wallpaper needs changing. The tables, once elegant dark wood, are now chipped after years of hard wear. The only thing beautiful about the place is her, and even that is, to some extent, an illusion.
She likes to wear blonde wigs when undercover because they look good on her, and lucky that the man she's been sent to kill has, according to his dossier, a penchant for blondes. She doesn't even need makeup to make her look younger; anyway, the age is in her gaze, rather than on her face.
"You let other women make a fool out of you..."
She holds the microphone with one hand and caresses the microphone stand with the other, palm wrapped around the column, a fluid up-and-down. It's a crude move, unsubtle, but from what she's seen the man likes his women artless and young and unsubtle. She'd sat in that corner, a week ago, watching him eye one of the dancers, noticed his reactions, catalogued his perversions. She'd seen his eyes travel the poor girl from head to toe, heard his vulgar laugh when she did the same movement Natasha's doing now, and - there it is, his eyes are on her, and he leans toward one of the bulky, black-clad men at his side, nods toward her.
Good.
"Why don't you do right, like some other men do?"
Now he knows she's singing at him, and he's puffed up like a rooster. His eyes are locked on her lips as they wrap themselves around the English lyrics. Fat, balding backwater politician with slimy hands and cruel, piggy eyes, insignificant save for the dregs of power he's managed to accumulate - if she's seen one, she's seen a thousand, and she'll scour her skin for an hour when this is done, but right now, she must answer Mother Russia's call.
She raises a hand to her blonde wig and runs her fingers through it, trails them down her bare shoulder. Her eyelashes lower, but her hips sway in time to the piano.
"Get out of here. Get me some money, too."
He would have been easy to bump off, any other way, but when the story breaks those who have heard of her will read the signs and see the message she aims to send. He's not working alone, and the only hands dipping into the pies he's been fingering are those higher up on the chain. Double-crossing a bunch of double-crossers, stealing from thieves, cheating the cheaters ... he should have known better. The only winners are the ones who have already won.
Later, she suffers his too-wet mouth on her breasts, his paws ripping at her delicate lingerie, his foul body doing its best to smother hers.
And even later, she slides her knife from between his ribs. He gurgles into wakefulness as his lungs fill with blood, and he flails as she slits his throat and removes the offending organ that she had endured. She takes her time dipping her finger in the blood at his throat, and she traces carefully the hourglass outline on his obscene belly. The symbol will not make its way into the official report, but whispers - and fear - will spread like diseases, among those whose disloyalty and avarice have made them susceptible. The arm of the Kremlin is long, its memory longer; and its eye is keen.
"Moscow sends its love," Natasha Romanova whispers, caressing his face as he eases into death. Her thoughts have turned already to a scalding hot shower and a warm bed.
