AN: So, this fic is inspired by Renee's time undercover with the Russian mob as a young, inexperienced agent, and is meant to detail her experience and relationship with Vladimir Laitanan, long before the events of days 7 and 8. Thank you to Jackpot for her always top-notch beta work.
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She's been in the Bureau long enough to know when someone is watching her.
She can feel the eyes without looking, suppressing a shiver as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Instead of turning to look, she takes a long swig of her vodka martini and leans infinitesimally closer to the man trying unsuccessfully to garner her attention.
It's a company function, a cocktail party in some trendy loft space, walls adorned with massive prints of black and white photographs. It's simultaneously a mixer and an art show, and so far, the who's who of the firearms manufacturing industry have proved completely uninteresting.
Unconsciously, one hand smooths over the hem of her dress, tiered layers of forest green chiffon too fancy to feel comfortable in.
She is completely aware of who's starting at her, and has a good idea of where he's standing. She's spent months pouring over his file, sorting through surveillance photos, probing carefully through his financial records. They've spoken on the phone and emailed back and forth about 'business'. Of course, she could simply turn around, but she wants to savour that almost uncomfortable thrum of predatory anticipation a little longer. She's spent the last half of the year obsessed with him, and now, finally getting to meet him in person seems almost like meeting a celebrity, someone larger than life.
She brings her glass to her lips again and is surprised to wring only a last drop from the bottom.
"Can I buy you another?" the man in front of her asks, doing his best to smile suavely.
She feels the pair of eyes revolve around her periphery as he moves. She raises her eyes to the face of her coworker and tries to concentrate there instead. Unable to help herself, her gaze slips to the left where her eyes connect with an intense pair of green ones. Feeling herself flush, she looks away quickly.
"Renee?" her companion asks, looking concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," she says quickly. "I'm just going to go get some air." She brushes past him without waiting for a response.
On the balcony the air is crisp, a little too cool to be comfortable without her jacket. She takes a deep breath and relishes the way the cool air feels in her throat. This is it. Her last (and only) two undercover missions had gone well, but even now the jumbled mix of anxiety and excitement persists. Sometimes she wonders if she's a junkie, adrenaline her own personal brand of heroin.
"Ms. Zadan, I presume?" a silky, accented voice sounds from behind her. Her fingers tighten momentarily around the railing before she smiles and turns around.
"Mr. Laitanan," she says, feigning surprise. "We finally meet." She extends her hand.
"Please, call me Vladimir." Instead of shaking her hand he brings it towards him and presses his lips to her knuckles.
"Only if you'll call me Renee," she says, smiling confidently.
"Renee," he repeats, as if testing out her name. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am glad to finally meet you in person."
"Your photographs are beautiful," she says, and she isn't lying. They're scenes from the Russian countryside, stills of flat, flowing plains in shades of grey and sepia.
"Thank you," he says graciously. "They remind me of home."
"A dom, ehto gde?" she asks him where home is in Russian, smiling almost smugly.
He blinks once, evidently impressed, before responding in the same language, "I am from Pushkin, near Leningrad. Or St. Petersburg, as they call it these days. How is it that you know Russian?"
"I was born in Moscow," she informs him. This is untrue. She was born in St. Louis, but her maternal grandparents were Russian. She has fond memories of going to her babushka's house and being spoiled rotten. "We had to flee when I was six, and I grew up here."
He nods sympathetically. "I'm glad to meet another ex-patriot."
"I'm glad to have the opportunity to do business with someone of your caliber," she shoots back, attempting to steer the conversation. After all, she was the one who 'discovered' Vladimir and brought him to the attention of her boss in the firm. Vladimir is a useful partner. He supplies parts without fuss or paperwork, something a man wealthy as her boss appreciates. He's also invested a large sum in the firm.
"I forsee a great partnership," he responds. "May I buy you another vodka martini?" He looks down at your empty glass.
You smile. "Good guess. And yes, thank you."
He signals to the bartender. "No self-respecting Russian would drink that pisswater," he says, meaning gin.
Renee cracks a smile. "No, indeed."
Your boss and a few others are striding purposefully towards you, evidently intent on catching up with Laitanan. "As much as I would enjoy spending the rest of the evening in your company," he murmurs, "I'm wanted by your colleagues."
"Of course," you smile graciously. "We'll be in touch?"
She's intrigued, pleased with the way her assignment has commenced. She got this job because of her background in Russian and her impressive, if short record with the Bureau. She wasn't the top of her class at Quantico for no reason. For now, she's comfortably confident. And she intends to produce results.
"There is no doubt," he says, leaning in to plant a slow kiss on her cheek. Renee hears Larry's voice in her head like some overcautious parent. Laitanan is a professional. He knows how to play to any personality. He'll try to take advantage of you.
She brushes away the thought and inhales the spicy-sweet of his cologne.
---
Renee hates writing reports. Something about having to condense her experience into a few paltry words is irritating to her. It's about dusk, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, sky red. With a sigh she saves her document and grabs her coffee cup, drifting restlessly into the kitchen.
If there's one thing she doesn't like about going undercover, it's the isolation. There are people at the company of course, but its simply easier and more conducive to maintaing her cover that she keeps everyone at arms length. She isn't allowed contact with her family or friends, and the only person at the Bureau she can communicate with is Larry. She's grateful to have that, even if it only consists of encouraging notes tacked at the bottom of his emails. What she does appreciate is the freedom afforded by the mission - no one to look over her shoulder, room to do things her way.
The last couple of weeks have been frustratingly stagnant - Laitanan has gone back to Russia for a couple of weeks and they've been communicating only by email about completely perfunctionary business transactions. Nothing illegal or of any interest. Since their initial meeting at the party her reports have become scant and useless. She looks forward to their scheduled company meeting upon his return, although there will be several others in attendance. What she really needs is to talk to him face to face. More than anything she can't stand the feeling that she isn't doing enough, isn't trying hard enough, not producing what is expected. She knows Larry would tell her to calm down, and that these missions take months, sometimes years, to be fruitful.
She brews some decaf and pulls last night's takeout containers from the fridge. She heats up a plate of sweet and sour chicken and goes back into the living room where her phone is vibrating insistently on her desk.
"Shit," she mutters, grabbing it. "Zadan."
"Renee, this is Vladimir Laitanan," her back straightens as she hears his unmistakable voice. Finally.
She tries to keep her eagerness out of her voice. "Of course. What can I do for you, Vladimir?"
"I know we were supposed to meet on Friday to discuss your order, but something has come up and I will be unable to attend."
Renee curses inwardly. "Can we reschedule?"
"Of course," he says. "I was thinking dinner, Saturday night?"
This takes a moment to process. "Excuse me?" she sputters, unsure if she's heard correctly.
This doesn't seem to phase him. "I'll pick you up at eight, alright? Wear something nice."
"Of course. It would be my pleasure."
"Until then," he says, and the line clicks shut. She snaps her phone closed and all but throws it back on her desk.
She takes a deep breath, trying to quell her growing excitment. This is her way in. While she's always found the idea of using her femininity on the job to be unsavoury, to say the least, she recognizes her advantage in the situation. If she manages to seduce Laitanan, the possibilities could be endless. There would be no telling how deep into his organization she could get. Larry will be pissed, but frankly, his concerns are secondary to her. She's prepared to do what she has to.
---
TBC