Romanoff
Vienna in November can be quite pleasant, provided it doesn't rain or sleet. There are mulled wine stands and people selling roast chestnuts everywhere inside the Ring, and Clint notes that the place "smells a lot better than in the summer, when all you get is horseshit from those tourist carts."
Most of the centre is a pedestrian zone, so there's no need to dodge homicidal drivers like in Rome or Paris, or sucking in bus fumes like in London. All in all, not a bad place in which to find oneself on mission.
She hadn't wasted any time after dropping off her bags at the Marriott; having a couple of hours of free time before the actual start of an op is a rare luxury. Spending it in a city where people are unlikely to shoot at someone carrying shopping bags is positively divine.
A foreign espionage moment, according to Maria Hill - why people join outfits like S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place: see the world and have some fun.
Clint, of course, hates shopping. He hasn't been inside a store since he discovered that you could buy grey Henley shirts and jeans on-line, and had browbeaten Coulson into telling him what size he should get. So naturally, he opted to stay in the hotel, claiming he needed a workout even more than he needed to see Natasha model backless dresses. (The lingerie, he informed her, he would gladly inspect later, in a more private setting.)
The Marriott has an indoor pool, a sauna and a Jacuzzi; Natasha fully expects Clint's hair to smell of chlorine for days, and with any luck he'll quit complaining about his back for a day or so.
She wonders briefly how Bond will be spending his afternoon. Finding a good-looking young thing to screw? For a professional to be as relaxed about sleeping around as he seems to be, and without immediate purpose, is nothing short of baffling to her.
Not that she has anything to be proud of when it comes to her own past reasons for using her body, and it's pretty clear that Bond feels about her the same way she does about him.
And in her case, there's that additional overlay of disgust, at who and what she was when they'd met. Naida Ramirez, 28, post-graduate fellow in geology. The perfect skin for the Black Widow to slip into.
Natasha grinds her jaw, just once, sets the ledger aside and closes the drawer on it (for now). Clint had once done the same. Can Bond?
Can she?
Familiar enough with the city to know the best place for the kinds of clothes that make crime kingpins drool, she heads up one of those narrow, cobbled Gassen, the little streets that head into the Ring like spokes on a wheel.
Vaskovic lives on the one she is walking up now, in a penthouse atop an old, refurbished former palais – no doubt with exquisite views of St. Stephen's Cathedral. The whole building belongs to his consortium according to MI-6, and can be expected to be crawling with minions even on a Friday night. Natasha slows her pace a mere fraction as she passes the place; a more detailed inspection can wait for the return walk.
Right now, it's time to spend other people's money.
The Steffl department store is pretty crowded this close to Christmas - as if Natasha needed any further incentive to head for the more exclusive designer floor. Milking the patriarchy for its clichéd use of female agents is a just and appropriate thing, isn't it? (Plus, Austria is the home of Wolford…) Bond's credit card is a magic wand in her hand.
She is an efficient shopper, though, and the moment passes far too quickly. And so it is a mere hour and a half later that Natasha walks up the lane, taking in the local architecture (who knows what Vaskovic might like to talk about), and to carry out the postponed recce carrying half a dozen shopping bags like an up-market form of camouflage.
The street is lined with tallish buildings, all called this-Palais or that-Haus; the erstwhile residences of satellites of the Habsburg court, now inhabited by new incarnations of power and influence. On a more mundane side, they all have ornate windowsills and overhangs that would make breaking into or out of them so much easier - Clint will be happy.
Does Bond climb? Natasha is suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she doesn't really know very much about the third member of their impromptu team (except certain things she'd rather wish she didn't remember). But he did survive that volcano, and apparently did pull Clint out of a tight spot. Her partner always talked about him with respect, so here's hoping.
The building where Vaskovic has his flat can be seen through a green iron double door, wide enough to admit a horse and carriage if those things were still in use. Beyond the door lies a pretty courtyard lined with flower boxes and urns - lots of shady nooks to keep bodies out of sight, if things go south for the boys while she keeps the mark occupied.
Not bad, as far as locations go.
Back out on the lane, there are numerous little stores, a mix of high-end boutiques and tourist traps. Natasha is considering buying Clint one of those tacky cowbells (in retaliation for the miniature Eiffel tower he'd brought back from a solo job in Paris), when she spots a familiar figure on the other side of the street. The man is heading in the direction from which she's just come, back towards the centre of town.
Agent John McMullen, Level Five S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Not a bad guy, a bit pretentious and by the book; Clint had scared him off pretty effectively the one time they'd been assigned to the same op.
She hasn't seen him around HQ or the helicarrier in some time, so he must be attached to the Vienna satellite office now – it would stand to reason, as it's just a few blocks away on the Opernring.
Their current mission is Level Seven though, and Hill has been bitching about the inefficiency of some of the European station chiefs for some time. When handing them this current assignment, Fury hadn't bothered to suggest that they touch base with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s local office for logistical assistance. There is no point hailing the guy - fewer awkward questions to answer.
Natasha turn into the window display to avoid being spotted by him; she hasn't bothered to hide her hair, but who would expect to see the Black Widow half-buried in snazzy shopping bags?
"Looking to buy a cuckoo clock?"
Bond.
Natasha forces the sudden adrenaline surge back down. From the frying pan into the volcano. Seems like the man had spent his downtime doing his own recce, not sleeping with some unsuspecting maid - or taking a nap, a shower or a tour on the spin bike, like Clint.
Natasha isn't sure whether to be surprised or disappointed, and goes for the single eyebrow raise by way of compromise.
"Cuckoo clocks are Swiss, not Austrian. I believe in authenticity when I buy crappy souvenirs, so no."
Bond flashes a sheepish grin and holds up a bag decorated with edelweiss flowers.
"I hope Moneypenny doesn't know that. As far as I'm concerned, alps are alps."
Bond has a tacky gift exchange with M's über-competent Girl Friday? Maybe there's hope for the man yet. Unfortunately, he blows it with his next comment, uttered while staring meaningfully at the purchases funded by the British taxpayers.
"So tell me, Agent Romanoff. Have you ever regretted leaving behind your life of crime?"
Of course, the man thinks of himself as a wit and probably meant that to be funny. Right. Natasha briefly contemplates smashing his face into the window display, but that wouldn't be fair to the merchant. So instead, she gives him the smile she normally reserves for briefing members of the Security Council.
"Just last month, actually. When those Nazis in Accounting refused to reimburse our hotel claim from Cali? Even after we gave them a sworn statement that I'd lost the receipt in a gun battle and Clint attached his bloody t-shirt as evidence? Back in the day, I'd have sprayed the office with sarin and taken our reimbursement from petty cash."
She lets her tongue slowly moisten her lips, taking some delight in watching his pupils expand.
"But Director Fury insists that I can't just randomly kill people who question my expense claims. So yes, I do have regrets."
Bond snaps his jaw shut with a slightly pained smile and says nothing, but by the time Natasha looks up the street again, McMullen has disappeared.
…..
The Steirereck is brightly lit – one of those restaurants that believe in urban chic over folksy ambience. Natasha fully expects the food to be nouvelle cuisine, artful morsels of meat dotted with drops of sauce and painterly vegetables on the side. (Good thing Clint isn't here.)
She is seated at a table next to the one where Vaskovic has his weekly conflab with one or the other of his contacts, or so she has been reassured. (MI-6 is equally efficient with both dinner reservations and bribes to the maître d'.)
Nancy Rawlins from New Jersey had arrived in the early evening, all eager anticipation for a date that tragically did not materialize. Her pout got prettier, the longer the evening wore on, so by the time the king pin and his entourage arrive, the waiter is more than ready to point out the gorgeous redhead who has been so heartbreakingly stood up.
The rest is almost comically easy.
By the time dessert rolls around, Vaskovic has dismissed all but four bodyguard/goons, who are relegated to a separate table in a corner. Nancy is utterly enchanted with his Middle European charm and knowledge of top Austrian wines, and yes, she is most interested in going back to seeing his apartment, with its spectacular night views of St. Stephen's Cathedral. Vienna is so pretty! Not like Hoboken at all.
Nancy giggles in tipsy awe as her new friend shows her the private entrance from the courtyard that leads up to his apartment.
"It's like a palace! Is this an old palace?" She watches with beguiling interest as one of the goons disengages the alarm system. "You must have some really valuable stuff upstairs," she breathes into his neck.
Vaskovic chuckles indulgently, and comes back with the obvious line, about how his modest art collection is as nothing to the beauty that will grace his humble home once Nancy crosses the threshold. She drops a shy kiss on his neck and asks if she can take a selfie with him and send it to her best friend, who will be so jealous and so happy that she ditched that horrible jerk of a fiancé.
Oh, and would he please ask those other guys to stay downstairs? They give her the willies, and she might just want some privacy to enjoy those views with him.
The selfie is gorgeous ("Look at it! Caroline won't believe how handsome you are!") and she taps out a quick message before pressing send with a flourish.
Clint will surely appreciate the high-res shot of the alarm system, as well as the information that he'll need Goon #1 for his retinal scan.
He may be less enthusiastic to be told to hurry up.
….
Bond
Bond looks at Barton's smart phone, the photo of Romanoff and the man he presumes to be their target.
"My Darling Caroline," the message says, "Here I am, surrounded by four gorgeous guys (the bald one would definitely catch your eye!) plus my awesome Silver Fox. Jealous much? So wish you were here! ;-)"
"My Darling Caroline?"
"Inside joke," Barton refuses to elaborate. "So according to her message, that's Vaskovic and four goons that she knows of. Plus, he probably has bad breath."
"Can she be trusted?"
May as well bring it out in the open. The last time he'd seen Romanoff she had murdered an innocent civilian, slept with him to milk him for information, and abandoned him and Barton to a bunch of thugs with a Nazi fetish - all in the space of less time than they have spent together since Southwark.
"And yes, I know you've worked with her for a number of years now. But I haven't. I need to know. Can she be trusted?"
Barton goes very still, and for a moment Bond thinks the man might hit him. Instead, he seems to have come to a conclusion.
"Depends on who you are," he says, "If it were to come down to choosing between you and me, she'd probably pick me, unless I was already dead or dying. In all other respects, yes, you can trust her. Come to think about it, you can trust her on that first one, too. If I were you, I'd worry more about whether you can trust me. Been only eighteen months since my last brainwashing; much longer for her."
Funny thing, trust. There are probably only two people Bond would consider having absolute trust in - M and Moneypenny. And ordinary people might not consider trust to be the right label even for that; it's more being able to predict what they're likely to do, in a given circumstance. Trust M to sell you down the river when the situation requires.
He gives Barton half a grin.
"Good enough."
There can certainly be no doubt that the photo Romanoff has sent is as useful as the information about the number of human obstacles; the picture of the system securing the entrance is crystal clear: Two cameras, one in the door frame, one into the courtyard. Retinal scan entrance.
Barton reads him pretty well.
"And the bald guy has the golden ticket."
Bond shrugs.
"Let's go."
…..
There is something about the silent city streets that heightens Bond's senses. The feeling of another body mass beside him as he walks contributes to his edginess but he embraces it, channels it into total focus. His step feels light; the grip of his Walther PPK/S, when his fingertips touch it, is cool and reassuring.
Barton's bow dangles (probably deceptively) loosely in his hand; the quiver is slung over his shoulder and molded closely to the fold of his leather jacket. The whole get-up is rather more conservative than what he had worn to the monster hunt, a fact for which Bond is distinctly grateful.
The courtyard is mostly dark, lit only by a string of fairy lights some holiday-minded tenant from one of the other buildings that use it has strung around a decorative cedar. There is movement in the shadows by Vaskovic's building, though, and a couple of cigarette ends glow bright orange in the far corner.
Bond enters the courtyard, ostensibly headed for the building at the far end, past two men loitering beside the entrance he recognizes from the photograph. A man wearing a woolen hat against the evening chill is positioned right underneath the location of the security camera, the other just outside the likely frame.
"Evening, gents," he says, not even bothering to pretend to be speaking German, and puts his elbow to the larynx of the bigger one, pulling him out of reach of the security camera immediately. He feels more than hears as the man's final breath is expelled by the power of the hit; his hands are half-raised in a feeble defensive gesture but he doubles up before it can amount to anything.
The air beside Bond hisses once, then again; he doesn't bother to wait for the two cigarettes to drop to signal the success of Barton's hits. Trust. Instead, he twists and rams his shoulder into the second man, who is faster than his bulk would suggest and is already reaching for his gun.
Bond twists sideways to grab the man's hand – there's another hiss, and an arrow sprouts out of the man's throat, centimetres from where Bond's head had been half a second ago. He doesn't waste time fretting about how close that arrow had been to his face.
The dead man is bald. Romanoff's message. Eyeball. Bond ducks down to remove the cap from his first target and pulls it on, before lifting the second man up in position that for anyone watching the security camera could reasonably look like one man lighting the other's cigarette.
"I hope none of the other two is bald," Barton says as he strides over. "Better be the right one, 'coz them, I took out through the eye socket."
Bond's question as to how anyone could locate someone's eyes in the darkness must be written across his face, because Barton shrugs.
"Cigarettes. Reflect off the retinas. Like the man says, smoking is bad for you."
Right. Hawkeye.
Bond stashes that intriguing factoid away and positions Bald Guy's head closer towards the scanner. Distaste at the procedure is written across Barton's features, despite his earlier nonchalant comment; his failure to step forward and help seems to be motivated by something other than wanting to stay out of range of the security camera. Well, no matter.
The door clicks open, and Bond shoves their human key aside. Barton, to his credit, takes a moment to drag both bodies into the shadows behind a set of planters (and no doubt to retrieve his arrows). Good thing Vaskovic doesn't share his neighbour's fancy for fairy lights.
No one is challenging their entry for now, but obviously a central alarm system suggests there is a command station somewhere, which presumably means more hostile personnel. At least indoors, without the echo effect of the open courtyard, Bond's silencer should work just as well as Barton's arrows.
Inside, the staircase is old, sweeping and made of stone. The first three floors look like offices – the decoy legitimate arm of Vaskovic's import/export business and its resident money laundry. He seems to be a traditional European employer – no one is at work on a late Friday night. (They probably have medical, dental and a pension plan, too.)
The only living soul is an oblivious Filipino janitor working a vacuum cleaner, the noise of which he is drowning out with an iPod. Barton takes him out with an arrow that just grazes the guy's neck; he drops like a stone. Tranquilizer dart? Bond approves with a nod.
Things get more interesting on the fourth floor, labeled "Transport Sicherheit." Transport security. Of course. Weapons brokers can use all sorts of security systems – legitimate ones to prevent diversion, others to secure its success. Whatever firepower Vaskovic needs, he's hiding it in plain sight.
There's the sound of voices, and the smell of cigarette smoke. Bond motions to Barton, who nods his understanding; they move in together – bow and Walther, respectively, drawn and ready.
Of the six men in Vaskovic's Ops center, none survives the next two minutes. Only two manage to draw their weapons.
Barton disengages the various alarm systems in case they might be hooked up to external monitoring, while Bond heads over to the computer and taps in a few commands. Shipping records, incoming and outgoing.
A quick scan reveals what looks like a legitimate weapons brokerage. Nothing recently come in from London, at least not anything recorded in this system. Officially, Vaskovic is sourcing a lot of materials from the Czech Republic, Germany and Israel; as for destinations – nothing jumps out either.
"This is the store front. We need the back rooms."
Barton nods.
"Yup. If he's really got alien tech, I doubt he keeps info on it on the goon floor."
"You're probably right."
Bond retrieves his USB stick and points up towards the ceiling with his thumb. Up? Barton doesn't need to be told twice.
The door to the penthouse, when they get there, is ajar. Barton nocks an arrow; Bond's Walther is ready to deal death. They needn't have bothered.
"It's open," comes a cheerful, throaty voice.
The scene, when they enter, is one of relative peace. Vaskovic lies prone and still on the couch; it's only the odd angle of his head that suggests he may not have simply dozed off. Romanoff is busy with a silver laptop that's plugged in on an exquisite, antique cherry wood desk.
"You're late, fellas."
Bond slides his Walther back into the holster, and Barton slings his bow over his shoulder.
"What?" he asks, looking at Romanoff. "You decided to go ahead without us?"
She shrugs and focuses on the screen. "I figured you'd be getting here around now, and be clearing the decks downstairs. He was beginning to annoy me."
"Did you actually need us on this op?" Bond asks carefully. Given that they dispatched only about ten men between the two of them (not counting the Janitor Who Lived), he suspects that Romanoff could have walked out of the place entirely unscathed, had she chosen to do so.
"Don't answer that, Nat," Barton interjects. "Our frail male egos like to wallow in a sense of usefulness. What'd he do to piss you off?"
Romanoff gives Barton a smile that contains an encyclopedia of unstated messages. What she says is, "He was a walking Marxist utopia - utterly without class. Plus, he smoked. Tongue like an ashtray."
Barton casts a triumphant look over at Bond that it doesn't take a dictionary to decipher: Didn't I say, bad breath?
Romanoff goes on, though.
"But he did brag about having friends who are going to make him not only rich, but one of the most important men in Europe - once they take power."
Bond frowns.
"I suppose you didn't find out who these friends are, and where that power grab will take place?"
"They'll be everywhere, he said. He wouldn't be drawn out any more than that. I did get the sense it was more than a handful of thugs, though. More like a political movement."
"Or a terrorist organization," Bond counters.
Something on the screen catches her eye.
"Have a look at this, boys – something just came in on his private e-mail."
They look over her shoulder together; Bond is equally aware of the scent of Romanoff's perfume (she still likes the same one), and of the fact that Barton takes great care not to crowd her as she works.
The minimalist message is from a JMM to an M Shoukri; RadanV is on the cc line. The text is as clear as it is brief: Pkg dep VIE 23:20 CET.
"Package departed Vienna International Airport at 23:30 hours Central European Time," Romanoff translates, lest there be any doubt.
Barton is not pleased.
"Shit. So the jackpot left while we dinking around here, taking out the garbage. Does the message say where it went?"
It doesn't, but within a few minutes Romanoff manages to pull up the IP address of the recipient. She lets out a soft curse.
"Jordan. The recipient's IP is in Jordan." She looks up; her face, for the first time since Bond has met her, is full of genuine concern.
"Whatever that alien weapon is, it's headed for the Middle East."