St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 6: Big Trouble in Paradise


Monday, 11:45 in the morning

After he repressed his anger and despair over Ginny's death (at least, for a short while), Harry wasted no time in reviewing carefully what he knew about his current mission. He already knew that both Dmitri Morozov and Anton Chertkoff were Draco Malfoy's pseudonyms (he had heard of the incident at Nevskaya by tapping the police transmission lines during the sleepless night), so all he needed was where Malfoy had planned to flee to before he was spooked at the airport.

As he sipped bitter coffee in his hotel room, he brought out his laptop and loaded the official airport records, looking for any flight tickets booked under "Morozov". Immediately, the search told him that Malfoy was bound for Moscow, scheduled right at the time that the police had tried to apprehend him at the airport. The second page which came up on the search was the follow-up destination. Now this made Harry frown.

"Moscow to Yalta?" It didn't make sense. With all the media coverage about the hunt, Harry could understand that Malfoy would want to flee the country, but why Georgia? The ticket could be a decoy, he considered, if Malfoy already knew that the Morozov cover would be blown.

"No, it doesn't make sense," Harry intoned again as he stared at the glowing screen. "First, why Georgia?" he mumbled out loud, "Second, why did he show up for the flight to Moscow if he knew the cover would be blown? Unless, he didn't expect it so soon…"

Harry tugged at his ever-unruly black hair and growled in frustration. His job entailed finding some person hidden in a hole, not a ferret running as swiftly as possible away from said hole. Dammit, he was supposed to find, not chase. Harry's deliberate, thorough approach was worthless in the face of a short timeline and ever-changing circumstances.

"Well, screw it then."

Harry shut down his laptop and threw it into his suitcase, along with his other few belongings. Shrinking the baggage and stuffing it into his pocket, Harry closed his eyes and focused carefully on the coordinates he had memorized just a couple of days ago. With a resounding crack he vanished, only to reappear in his room in Moscow. Taking stock of the hotel room, he ascertained that everything was as he had left it and again took out his computer.

Typing fast, Harry called up Mishkin's phone number and dialed it through the internet connection. (He had effectively broken his cell phone and had no desire to replace it just yet). He let it ring twice, five times, ten times…finally the answering machine came on.

"Uh, Sasha, this is Potter, I may be on to something, but I wanted a consult before I rushed into a total blunder. This is a little out of my area…anyway, I think Malfoy may have left for Yalta. Farfetched, I know, but that's what I'm stuck with. Send back a message ASAP, ok?"

Clicking off, Harry sat back against the pillows. He really didn't want to go to Yalta. It was too risky, too rash, too…seven years ago. He loathed to admit that he wasn't the same reckless youth as before, but being a war veteran tended to do that to one. Sighing, Harry decided to wait a bit in case Mishkin responded.

More out of curiosity than anything, Harry opened the BBC News front page and flicked his wand at the screen to switch it to the wizarding section. As his gaze left the live update stream on the MagiComp scandal, he felt as though he was punched in the stomach.

The tagline declared boldly: "Explosion at Yalta airport caused by augmenting charm."

"On the subject of this morning's explosion of a 727 airplane and a major terminal at the Yalta International Airport, the muggle investigators have declared in bewilderment that the blasts could not have been caused by the inadequate amounts of explosives found to have been used by the "terrorists". A follow-up search by magical authorities declared that an augmenting charm on the initial blasts was used to worsen the damage—"

"Another damn coincidence," Harry thought as he clicked on a related link—"Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Montgomery found hiding out in Crimean summer home." He did not bother reading the story, but took a moment to look at the pictures. Damn, but did he really want to be relaxing at the seaside right now, instead of wracking his nerves trying to chase the ferret through Russia, in winter no less.

A particular photo caught his eye as he looked over it with the professional eye of an investigator. The shot had been taken at Elizabeth, from a rather odd angle, so that half the picture was her face and the other half the open window behind her. Squinting at the background, Harry cocked his head and enlarged the slide. Unmistakably, the camera had captured a figure crawling over the rocks just behind the house, before suddenly disappearing.

"And another little mystery," Harry scoffed. Who would be disapparating behind the Montgomery summer home, and why? It couldn't be a journalist—they had very clearly decided on a full frontal attack.

Enlarging the photo still more, Harry stared at the figure as he stilled the shot, getting a full facial view, absolutely clear and in detail. Anton Chertkoff.

"Oh please, Merlin, not this…" Harry moaned but the face was identical to the one he recalled so well from the airport car rental agency. Anton Chertkoff. In other words, Draco Malfoy. It didn't take much to put two and two together.

Bringing up the phone screen again, the same one he used to call Mishkin, Harry dialed the number of the photographer, fully intending to ask for directions and tell the idiots to get out of the area (not that anyone would listen). He was running throughout the whole mission so far on pure luck, he knew, but Harry was no longer in a position to complain—events had gone to hell far too quickly.

He was about to scroll further down for any other updates, when the person at the end of the line picked up.

"Hello?"

Harry never saw the last headline: "Rosalind Cox, Director of the MIA, still missing without ransom."


During the commotion downstairs, Draco had crawled close enough to the house to see the upstairs bedrooms and apparated inside without preamble, aiming for the one that looked distinctly like Elizabeth's (he seriously hoped the posters of half-naked, wanton male superstars did not belong to Thomas).

Once inside, Draco took out two tiny, black microphones from his pocket and attached one behind a swinging mirror and the other to the underside of the four-poster bed. After casting an amplification charm on each, he took out the receiver and checked that it was tuned to the correct frequency. The charm was intended to sufficiently bug the entire house from the one room, so Draco wasted no time in disapparating when he heard the reporters being hustled outside downstairs. Twisting on the spot, he did not notice his sleeve catch a glass figurine and topple it as he vanished.

Back amid the limestone rubble and evergreen bushes, Draco whipped out his binoculars, trained his eyes on the room, and clamped the receiver headset over his ears, settling down for what he presumed to be a long wait.

In a flash moment of hesitation, he remembered the ideals he swore to abide by—never to kill, under any circumstance.

"Well," he considered, "Maybe not any circumstance…In self defense, people can kill justly. And since I'm dead if I screw this up…Doing anything to prevent my own death sounds like good justification."

Not entirely mollified, he dragged himself out of the dangerous mental terrain and focused on the room, just as Thomas and Elizabeth walked in. Adjusting the dial above his right ear to tune out the static, he listened to their conversation.

"How long did that buy us?" Thomas was asking.

"Maybe a couple of hours," Elizabeth sat down dejectedly on her bed, "They'll be back as soon as they upload the story. Then they'll need fresh quotes and photos."

"Alright, ok," Thomas started pacing nervously across the room, "Look, the airport is shut down, our flight is canceled—"

"What—"

"Just listen. There was an explosion at the airport, well two actually. There's no chance of us taking a plane. I am not going to risk a ship, even to the nearest harbor. Don't like ships," he shuddered, "So, our best option is to drive to Gelindzhik and board a train. Is there some kind of…back exit to this place? A tunnel?"

Elizabeth just laughed, causing Thomas to stop his incessant pacing, "Tunnel? Not that I know of. This is a summer home, not a base. But there is a dirt road behind the house and the garage opens up both there and the front."

"Right, then pack a suitcase quickly, we are leaving now," Thomas looked anxiously out of the window and Draco slid a few inches lower behind his rocky cover as he pulled out the toy-sized Kalashnikov and whispered Engorgio, returning it to normal size. "Lizzie, sorry if I look like a poor, paranoid bastard right now, but I have a bad feeling about this whole thing and I want us running at full speed away from this mess and somewhere far, far underground. Pack, will you?"

The man stood right in front of the window, mostly facing outside, giving Draco a full-frontal target. Bringing up the barrel, Draco inclined his head sideways and dropped his binoculars onto his lap. He squinted one eye shut and stared through the scope, leveling the automatic off to aim straight for the heart. Even if the shot didn't fly entirely true, he would hit the broad man in the chest and cause enough damage regardless. Draco let out a deep breath, stabilizing himself, and pulled his finger back through the first pressure. Pausing at the hint of resistance, he let his lungs deflate and prepared the pull through with the shot. His finger twitched on the trigger just as blonde mass obscured his line of sight, completely covering Thomas.

"Fuck!" Lizzie Montgomery had jumped up to hug her bodyguard, mumbling something as she did, before pulling back slightly and resting her hands on his shoulders, smiling.

Smiling like a damn, stupid, little whore, Draco thought. Why did she have to choose now to feel up Thomas? He was almost tempted to shoot her blonde head off along for the ride, but instead clicked on the safety and lowered the Kalashnikov. He would only be signing his own sentence by killing the twit.

Still cursing, he slumped back against the rock—Thomas was already leaving the room and he had no clear shot to any other part of the house from where he was. Intending to wait out until they left for Gelindzhik, Draco shrunk and repacked the automatic, idly listening as Elizabeth hummed while packing her suitcase. He was startled out of the onset of brooding as he felt the habitual vibration of the cell phone.

"Hello."

"Where are you?"

"Zone 3."

"Are you any closer to wrapping up?"

"What do you want?"

"Potter is coming to Yalta, likely in a matter of a couple of hours, maybe sooner."

"How the fuck did he track me to Yalta?"

"Airplane tickets, moron. Everyone knows you are Morozov."

"I'll keep that in mind. Potter can go screw himself over looking for me there. It'll be finished today. Tomorrow, at the latest."

"See to it that it is. I'll arrange for a helicopter when you're stable."

Draco did not bother responding, but instead flipped the phone shut. Focusing back on the house, he forced aside distracting thoughts, paying attention solely to his objective. "Well, they sure don't waste time." A silver Mercedes rolled slowly and quietly out of the back garage, raising little puffs of gray dust as it traveled up and over the hill behind the summer home, well out of sight and sound of the noisy, busy journalists.

Crouching behind the rocks, Draco slinked down the slope to where he had parked his BMW in a small clearing behind a patch of trees. Follow them to Gelindzhik, catch them at the train station, back to the BMW, call him, job done. Finally, the easy part.


"Hello?"

"Hello? Is this the BBC News crew at the Montgomery summer home?"

"Yes! Who is this?"

"This is a government representative," Harry bit his lip as he spoke, "Let me speak to your group leader."

"You are speaking to her. This is Hermione Granger. How may I help you, whoever you are?"

"Hermione! Oh thank god…This is Harry!"

"Harry? As in Harry Potter?"

"Yes, who else…? Never mind."

"Harry. Potter. So now you decide to call! Honestly, you, mister, should be ashamed of yourself! I swear, how many years have I not heard from you?"

"Hermione, listen, I'm sorry and I swear we'll catch up as soon as this whole mess is over, but right now—"

"What mess?"

"I can explain in just a little bit. Look, I need the coordinates of the Montgomery summer home, for apparition. I need to get there immediately. You are still there, right?"

"Yes…Harry does this have something to do with the MIA?"

"Hermione, I work for the MIA. Of course it has to do with them. Please, I need to get these immediately. I'll explain."

"Alright, I'll give you the numerical coordinates and a physical description of where you should land. Write this down."

Listening to the recitation and quickly jotting down the numbers, Harry could just picture Hermione's huffy look, spoiled slightly by the calculating gaze. No doubt, she was already trying to figure out what had happened at her base to cause such curiosity.

"You got that? Harry?"

"Yes, see you in a bit."

Hanging up, Harry tried not to picture Hermione's disgruntled expression, knowing that he would be getting full blast of it in just a matter of moments.


"Aw fuckin' hell, shut up you hag!!" Blaise Zabini jumped up from his steel chair, abandoning his game of solitaire to bang on the adjacent door. Who knew little old ladies could be so damn loud? "I said SHUT UP, before I shut you up myself!"

He cursed his employers three times over—not being allowed to use magic was grating on his nerves harder than the ruckus behind the locked door.

"Blah, blah, blah, can't have you tracked, blah blah, stop whining, blah! You try dealing with that bitch without a ready Silencio," Blaise collapsed back behind his little table, wincing as his bum connected with the hard metal, "Aw, man…Bastard could have picked better furnishings…hurts worse than on Sunday morning…"

Groaning again, Blaise fished for his cell phone in the sports bag at his feet. He ignored the stench of cigarettes and alcohol as he bent closer to the dirty floor, sitting back up with a triumphant smile. He knew he had called recently…what the hell. If he can't get his way, he can at least bug the guy.

"Hello?"

"Heey, how much longer do I have to stay in this shithole?"

"You will stay there until I send the pick-up team, Zabini."

"Yeah, and when is that gonna be? I want some particulars, man. A day, a week, a month? When I signed on—"

"If all goes well, you'll be out in a matter of days. Just don't anything stupid, like go outside."

Only angrier and boredom not quite relieved, Blaise started to shout into the phone even as the dial tone rang loudly in his ear. The banging had started up again next door. A reddish drop of water splashed onto the Ace of Spades, and Blaise looked up in time to catch its twin smacking him on the nose. The pipes were leaking.

Hell.


A/N: Wow, third update in three days. I can be honest now that I won't be able to stick to this pace. Expect a little break every now and then.

Ok, I've decided that I seriously need to thank my reviewers—you guys are great!! Honestly, would I be writing if I didn't have reviews?

So, all you guys that reviewed—Moonlight Princess( :) 3 times!), Adriana Adurens, Catchy Turn, Gertrude Abbernathy, darkshadowarchfiend, manini (thanks for the advice!), slytherinmalfoy, Evelyn W, Shadowcub (a bit ambiguous, but oh well). You're all fantastic!

So, hope you enjoyed that and please review ;)

-NS