St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 2: Convoluted Surprises

Dressed in outrageously rich furs, smelling subtly of Chanel cologne, and sporting a spectacularly glossy pair of sunglasses, Draco Malfoy did not in the least resemble the same, scraggly-looking man who had slipped into the lowdown bar just two nights ago. No, he was strutting boldly down one of the major boulevards of St. Petersburg, reveling in the crisp, frosty air highlighted so brilliantly by a clear mid-afternoon sky. He even smiled.

If someone asked Draco for the reason to his apparently sudden change, he would have waved them off impatiently. After all, what use was it to him to discuss matters of leading a double life with a stranger? But a double life was exactly what Draco was emerged in. During the dark, lurking night hours and behind ski masks and black suits, hid the evasive face of St. Petersburg high crime. He did not fashion a catchy alias for himself to smirk at in the morning papers, neither did he bother with elaborate trademarks or plans as seemed to be so fashionable in the criminal world of late. No, Draco liked things simple. Crime was his job, his necessity, his escape, and his retribution. It most certainly was not his pleasure. Oh, not to get confused, Draco definitely enjoyed the benefits of his "profession", but it would be a lie to say he did not spend many a sleepless night pondering if having a socially acceptable position would have made him feel somewhat less sullied.

But in any case, Draco swept those depressing thoughts out of the forefront of his mind. It was still light and he was still an upstanding citizen, at least for a few more hours. As a mask for the inquisitive gazes of society, Draco was merely one of the hundreds of semi-successful businessmen that flocked to the big city, in search of bigger game. He would admit that he slipped a bit today, decking himself out in luxurious furs and leather, but his Malfoy heritage screamed and demanded with violent vigor that he devote a good portion of his time and money to a lifestyle at least slightly above the plebian source of his proceeds.

Letting out a puff of air to watch it fog up and swirl away in the light breeze, Draco stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets and started the short walk back to his BMW. He may still be on that job, but now was time to ignore that little issue, and hell, ice-cream sure sounded nice. It did not take long for him to pull up at his favorite coffee shop and order a bowl of the dessert, with a double espresso on the side. Thoroughly relaxed and content, Draco mulled over what was in store for the upcoming few days, while glancing lazily at the television set above the counter. What he saw on the screen, however, made him pause and lower his spoon.

"As Moscow gives special notice to the sudden spike in St. Petersburg crime, England's Prime Minister enters talks on the subject. There is evidence, say British officials, that one of the members of a major mafia family from approximately ten years ago that wreaked havoc in England may be responsible for the current situation in St. Petersburg. Collaborating officials in Moscow are currently launching an investigation into the matter of so-called Draco Malfoy, the criminal in question. Citizens are warned not to interfere with any private investigative attempts, although a description of Malfoy was released just yesterday, describing a young, average height man with white-blond hair and blue/gray eyes. Details remain vague as officials are reluctant to declare the suspect actually a valid threat…"

Draco tuned out the rest of the journalists voice. What the hell? He thought. How in the world did the muggle English government even know about him? After seven years?

'So, the wizarding world blabbed, question is why,' he left the rest of his ice-cream on the counter and walked out of the shop, careful to keep his head down. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him, but one could never be too careful. His life had taught him that too well. He got into the BMW and headed for the airport, not bothering to stop at his flat. Thinking back to the television, though, his serious façade broke: he found he rather felt like Sirius Black and the irony could not help but gain a little laugh.

Moscow was just too damn big, Harry thought as he navigated the streets in a rental Volga, trying to find the meeting place with his contact. He had already stopped for directions twice and was reluctant to do so again. After all, wasn't the navigation system on the dashboard supposed to guide him? Frustrated, he tried telling the system where he needed to get to before the screen flashed a cheery "You have arrived message" accompanied by a Russian voice speaking incomprehensively to Harry. Staring dumbly out of the window, Harry noticed that the car had backed him into a parking slot on the side of a long, rather ornate street, apparently satisfied that he was at the correct location. Looking back at the screen, he saw that it had gone blank and the machine was very insistently trying to tell him something in Russian. Cautiously, he opened the door and got out of the car, pulling the keys from the ignition as he did so—he could not shake the odd feeling that the car was yelling at him to get the hell out.

Walking down the street, which he realized must be called "Arbat" from the English signs, he searched for the restaurant he was told to be at, precisely at seven o'clock. Fortunately, finding it did not prove nearly as difficult as operating the car, as he had apparently been "dropped off" not a block's length away from the place. Walking into the distinctly oriental-looking restaurant, Harry did not even take five steps inside before being cornered by a prim, suit-clad concierge.

"Reservacia?"

"Uh…sorry?"

"Oh, English. Reservation, sir?"

Thrown slightly by the near-flawless English, Harry took a second to reply, "Uh, yes. Harry Potter."

"Follow me, Mr. Potter, your companion has already arrived and is waiting for you in the private section."

Somehow, Harry thought that the elaboration made the meeting sound rather unlike a business occasion and a bit too much like a secretive rendezvous. Shrugging aside the innuendo, he followed the uptight man to the back of the restaurant and allowed himself to be led through a beautifully designed, thick, rice-paper screen, to the aforementioned "private section". The concierge left him at the entrance and pointed out the booth he was apparently expected in, "Over there, sir. A waiter will be with you shortly."

When Harry reached the booth, he found himself immediately shaking hands with a middle-aged, sandy-blond gentleman, whose friendly smile was altogether too infectious.

"Mr. Potter! I am delighted," the man exclaimed, "My name is Alexandr Mishkin, though I suppose Ms. Cox already informed you of that."

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the booth, Harry nodded politely, figuring that having read the information from the folder counted as practically the same thing. Speaking of which, he placed the folder next to him on the seat and looked at Mishkin expectantly, ready to discuss the assignment. His companion, however, seemed quite unaware of Harry's haste. The waiter had just arrived and as Mishkin was ordering a dinner large enough to feed ten, Harry realized that there was nil chance of him rushing through the mission at top speed as he had intended. Although, that did not mean he wasn't going to try.

"So, Mr. Mishkin—"

"Please, Sasha. Everybody calls me Sasha!"

"Ok. Sasha. How is it that you and your men came across Draco Malfoy? The brief I received was not very clear on the details at your front."

"Hah," Mishkin nodded sagely, "Well, if it was, what use would I be to you? No no, we must be vague on details in such matters; otherwise we would never get a night of decent dining, paid for by excuse."

"So, then—"

"Oh very well, I see you are one of those uptight, stodgy, serious types, hmm?" Mishkin paid no heed to Harry's affronted expression, although the younger man was clearly not used to being called uptight, "See, the problem is that we weren't really looking for Malfoy when it happened. If your report said we stumbled upon him, then it couldn't be more accurate. Basically, a couple of my men and I were transferred to the domestic division because of some issues on the home front, St. Petersburg to be precise. You may have heard…then again, maybe not…well, St. Petersburg has been suffering recently from speedily inflating crime rates, most of which pointed toward the wizarding nature. By this I mean outlandishly impossible crimes without even a trace of a suspect, baffling the entire police force of the city and surrounding area. We were sent in to investigate a major bank robbery and sure enough found traces of magical penetration. In other words, whoever robbed the entire damn vault was not using smart tech to do it. They were covering the entire place in layers and layers of magic, from opening spells, to Scourgify, to obliviates, to shrinking spells, etcetera. Bottom line, a wizard was exploiting those poor muggles. The wizarding community of the city had not caught on, so whoever it was, he had completely isolated himself among muggles."

"Alright, I still don't see where Malfoy comes in."

"Patience. You have so little of it…" taking a small bite of his sushi, Mishkin paused contemplatively before continuing, "Malfoy must have been quite an amateur at the whole criminal deal, you know. He did not even seem to consider that wizards might get involve if he began robbing helpless muggles. Maybe he just didn't care…"

"Wait, hold on a second," Harry dropped his fork (he did not attempt to struggle with the chopsticks) and stared at Mishkin, "You are saying Malfoy is the new face of St. Petersburg crime? Draco Malfoy?? Just how did that happen?"

"Well, your guess is as good as mine on that matter. But don't you want to hear how exactly we found him?" Mishkin seemed a touch miffed at the interruption.

"I'm sorry, go on."

"Very well. To be quite honest, though, he found us. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as I would like to think, but life is life. Basically, a few days ago, my team and I had hunkered down it some trashy bar, wanting a bit of solitude from the noisy hotel. Because, you know, a big storm had just hit the city and no sane person would go outside in that weather. So, there we are, sitting at a dingy table, drinking near hundred proof liquor to keep out the cold, and lo and behold, in walks Mr. Malfoy himself. We didn't recognize him at first, what with all the incognito scraggly clothes and such. But my second in command, Uriy, he spotted that blond hair straight off. Said "I've only seen pretty hair like that when Lucius Malfoy came to Moscow". Well, after that, it didn't take long for us to notice that despite the clothing he was perfectly groomed, nails polished, a thick gold ring gleaming on his ring finger. Although we already had our suspicions, the clincher came when he answered his cellphone and started talking in a purely lucrative manner. Well honestly, bending his head far over the table, even bringing up his hand to cover the mouthpiece. Well, didn't fool us. We took out that Weasley invention—Extendable Ears, and so heard the whole conversation. It appeared that he was accepting some sort of assignment from the very start, but when he started bargaining about the fee. Well, he gave himself away on the spot, saying he was the best and kicking up the price. We didn't need to hear more than that, really. It just fit too nicely. And even if Malfoy wasn't the thief in question, we still knew it was him and were sure your guys would like to know."

Mishkin stopped speaking with a self-satisfied smile, glancing at his dumbstruck companion across the table. Harry opened his mouth a couple of times rather like a tuna, before chancing a question.

"So…you're saying Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, heir to what is likely the richest family in the world, is a common thief?"

"Oh no, no! Who said common? His work is splendid! Maybe a bit simplistic when seen by fellow wizards, but nevertheless striking. He does not mess around with flashy scenes or any of that. He just gets the job done, it a beautifully simply manner, and that's the end of that. It's remarkably refreshing. He knows what he's doing and he does it well. Honestly, I don't think we could stop him right now—he has mastered the art of elusiveness better than...of name any famous criminal."

"Ok, so ah…how do we catch him?"

Mishkin seemed to be thrown off his stride, "I beg your pardon?"

"You told me you knew where Malfoy was. Now I need to find him and drag him back to England."

"Now I see why Ms. Cox likes to withhold information from the participating parties…She must be having quite a laugh right now."

"And why exactly would she be doing that? And didn't you know what my purpose here was?" Harry allowed a hint of annoyance to penetrate his stoic tone.

"To the second—no, I did not know. I was just asked to give you the information to apparently find Malfoy to talk to him or something…oh, I don't know. My superior talked to your superior, end of story. As for the first, we are both most likely bugged."

"Great," Harry stood up from the table and picked up his folder, "I take it you are about to give me tickets to St. Petersburg and a number for my new contact?"

"Spot on. Here you are," Mishkin handed over the papers cheerfully, as though glad to be rid of them, "Just be careful with those. This is a delicate matter, after all."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry hesitated before stretching out his hand, "Nice meeting you, Sasha."

"Likewise," the Russian agent shook his hand firmly, "I expect we'll meet again soon."

Curious, but ignoring the last statement, Harry turned and walked out of the restaurant, back to the iCar. Tonight, he would be de-bugging all of his clothes—even Rosalind's toys couldn't withstand furious Difindos.

Gorozin dialed a now-familiar number, "We have a problem."

"Now you realize it."

"The English are looking."

"Who?"

"The MIA."

"Who."

"Potter."

Neither speaker voiced the thought that sprung immediately to their mind. Finally, Gorozin took it upon himself to resolve the tension.

"He's met with Mishkin."

"He's too close to the case. Are you going to deal with it?"

Gorozin fought back the urge to hang up and forced himself to speak, "I'll deal with it."

A/N: Alright, I think a plot is finally coming into focus. Of course, I intend to bring in more characters. Any suggestions for the lead girl? I'm still thinking about that one. Again, please review. I would kind of like an idea of how I'm doing.

By the way, about the iCar…hah, well I just thought it funny how everything is becoming iSomething today (think iPhone) and in another 6 years…well.

NS