"Did you know that Astoria, Queens has a larger Greek population than Athens, Greece?"
"Yeah," Napoleon growled, "and it looks like every Greek in Astoria is in this nightclub!" The two agents were seated at an out of the way table in the cavernous club on 31st Avenue known, ironically, as Spyce. The dance floor was practically writhing with hundreds of people dancing, jumping and screaming in that particularly joyous way one does when fueled by alcohol. And this crowd had a big reason to be joyous: AEK Athens, the soccer team supported by the bulk of the crowd, had won a very prestigious national award earlier in the day. "Illya, do you see our guy anywhere?"
The Russian had been nursing a club soda and trying to avoid making eye contact with the increasingly inebriated women who kept glancing his and Napoleon's way. "Nyet and I am starting to think he is no longer here if he ever was." His eyes swept the crowd one more time and he saw a familiar face heading toward one of the exits on the opposite side of the room. "There! Come on!" he yelled over the music as he pointed the way.
Just as they jumped up from the table, a gaggle of young women blocked their path and began to sway seductively. Each man found himself with an armful of woman. "Dance with me handsome!" the brunette in Napoleon's arms said as she tried to pull him to the floor.
"No, thanks, Miss. I have to be going," the CEA said as he disentangled himself from her grip. He looked at Illya who was having the same problem. It was like trying to get away from a Hydra; every time they twisted away from one woman, two more stepped in to dance.
Neither man wished to create a scene nor did they want to let their target escape. Unfortunately, by the time they were able to dance their way to the exits, their man was nowhere in sight.
Ever the fatalist, Illya groaned, "We have failed. Mr. Waverly will not be happy."