Natasha scanned the room again, quietly keeping tabs on everyone in the cafe. Two aproned workers buzzed to and fro behind the counter, rushing to fill the orders of a pack of corporate lackeys on a coffee run. A couple chatted by the sun-filled windows, and students sat scattered around the plush chairs and couches, headphones in and laptops open.
Glancing up between the canvases that displayed local artist's work, the wall clock read quarter to ten. Natasha took a sip of her latte and let her eyes fall back to her book.
At 9:55 almost on the dot, the bell chimed at the door. Sturdy footsteps clacked on the wooden floor, forceful enough to be heard over the low music. Natasha kept her head bent down into the book. Shifting only her eyes up, she looked into the glass frames decorating the walls. Broad shoulders, a strong jaw, the stiffness of a rough upbringing almost perfectly concealed by expensive clothes and a suave saunter - even in the blurry reflection of a jazz poster, Natasha could tell it was him.
Still feigning interest in her book, Natasha used her peripheral vision to watch Szabo step into line. With another sip of her latte, she allowed herself a better look. No bodyguards, no ear radio, possibly a concealed weapon. Judging by the cut of the suit, it would be in the small of his back, not strapped to his ankle. Not that this was that sort of meeting.
Natasha waited patiently as István completed his usual order. As he was paying the casher, she gathered her things. Timing was everything on an op like this. By now the steps were second nature.
She stood up, folder and book in hand, and walked away from Szabo to a trashcan in the corner. A straight path would seem forced. She threw away her paper cup and took out her cell phone, seamlessly turning around and heading for the exit.
Pretending to type a text message, she glanced at Szabo and adjusted her pace. Just for fun, she even called the spot on the floor where they would meet. She continued forward, looking oblivious but totally aware. 3. . . 2. . . This was the hardest part. She cut him off and their shoulders slammed together, sending her tumbling to the tiled floor. As she when down, Natasha let the papers and book she was holding spill onto the floor, giving them a little push so they would spread out around her.
"My goodness, miss, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" said Szabo in Hungarian.
Natasha made herself blush. "No, no that was completely my fault. I'm so embarrassed." She looked away and began to collect her spilled papers.
"Allow me to help. I insist." István took a knee and began collecting the loose sheets of paper. He picked one up and paused. "Woman by a Lake," he said, naming the painting miniaturized in his hand.
"You know it? Most people aren't familiar with Gorgiani d'Scipio, but his work is a perfect representation of the Macchiaioli movement."
He handed her back the stack of papers and stood up. Natasha followed, brushing dust off of her carefully calculated outfit. The skirt and blouse Szabo would perceive as professional and businesslike, while the handmade bracelets that jangled on her wrist let him know she had a taste for the artistic.
"Impressive," said Szabo. "I don't know many young woman so well versed in art history."
"I should hope not. It's my job to be the best. I work for Davenport Gates & Monroe, it's -"
"New York City's premier auction house," István inserted.
"Yes," said Natasha, looking impressed. "We have a client in the city interested in selling Woman by a Lake."
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is István Szabo. I own the Galleria Szobor. Have you heard of it?"
Natasha's eyes went wide. "I feel like such an idiot. The Szobor is world renown. I am dying to see your contemporary sculpture gallery."
"Have you never been?"
"Unfortunately not. I'm new to the city. My fiancé and I just arrived last week. My name is Charlotte Welch, by the way."
Natasha could see the wheels turning behind Szabo's eyes. Perfect.
"Miss Welch, would you care to join me for a cup of coffee? It's the least I can do."
István escorted her to a high table by the window and ordered her another latte. As they chatted about various artists and art periods, Natasha made a mental note to thank Fury for the required reading.
"Miss Welch, you are a rare woman. American, yet fluent in Hungarian. An expert art historian. Employed by one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world." He paused taking a sip of his coffee. "Why would you say if I offered you a job?"
"At the Galleria Szobor? I'm flattered, but I already have a job."
"This way, you would never have to travel back and forth to New York. Your fiancé would be pleased, I'm sure."
After this past week, Clint just might want her gone as much as possible, but she kept up her smile.
"I don't know, Sir."
"Whatever they're paying you, I'll raise."
"I'm flattered, really. But I'm not sure changing jobs right after changing countries is the best idea. Why do you want me anyway?"
"A position has recently opened up in our acquisitions department."
"And?" Natasha pressed.
"Honestly?"
"If you please."
"Convince your client to sell Woman by a Lake to me."
Natasha nodded. "So that's what this is about."
"That would be your first task, yes. But I can tell you are full of potential, Miss Welch." He stood up to leave and pulled a business card from his suit pocket. "I'm holding interviews tomorrow at noon. I do hope you will make an appearance."
Five days later, Natasha was settled into her new office on the fourth floor of the Galleria Szobor. The rectangular facade sat immediately beside the Danube river. Strong columns guarded it's entrance and a gold-leaf dome glinted in the sunlight.
With her knowledge of István and Shield's expertly falsified resume, she had been able to play the interview easily. Now she was busy attempting to gather artwork for display at the gallery. Her first task was simple. Szabo didn't know that the real Woman by a Lake had been confiscated by Shield after it's former owner was arrested. White collar crime wasn't Shield's forte, but Fury had had a feeling that owning a masterpiece would come in handy. As Natasha pretended to be negotiating with her client, the canvas was already on it's way to the city.
Natasha looked up from her computer. István had appeared in the hallway outside the glass front wall of her office. "Miss Welch, may I see you please?"
"Of course, Sir." She followed him down the hall and into his grand, wood paneled office. A TV hung on the wall amongst several old prints. The news played quietly in the background.
"How is the acquisition of the d'Scipio coming?"
"Excellently, Sir. I expect we'll have a deal by the end of the week."
"Good. I want you on the Lidel project when your done. You'll be helping Adrienn with Looking Glass of São Pauline. The July Exhibition must be spectacular this year."
"Of course."
Natasha was turning to leave when the TV caught her attention. " . . .at this warehouse in the Eastern Shipping District." said the reporter with the flaming husk of a building behind her. "Fire crews are still working to get the blaze under control. There are three reported casualties at this time."
"Such a tragedy," said István. "Luckily my brother owns more than one warehouse."
"I didn't know you had a brother in the shipping business," Natasha said calmly even as her heart rate quickened. "I hope he's alright."
She left István and turned back down the narrow marble hallway. Natasha grabbed her cell phone from her purse and kept walking until she hit the end of the hallway. She dialed Clint's number as she paced back and fourth before a floor to ceiling window that seemed to drop straight down into the river. No answer. And again.
The more times she called, the quicker she paced, and the tighter she gripped the phone. Maybe Clint had to leave his phone as he evacuated the building. Maybe not.
She shouldn't leave the office, not so soon after landing the job. Natasha returned to her desk and tried to type. The lifeless screen of her phone starred back at her from the desk. No call. No text.
Natasha grabbed her purse and locked her office door. "Dorina, if anyone's looking for me, I'm taking an early lunch."
Natasha took a cab to a wharf a few blocks away from the fire. She hurried up to the police tape perimeter where a small crowd had gathered. Sirens blared and red lights flashed as more fire trucks arrived. Smoke curled up into the sky.
Where was he? Natasha scanned the cluster of workers waiting behind the line. Paramedics scurried around attending to the wounded. No Clint.
A soot-covered firefighter burst out of the building with a man tossed over his shoulders. The paramedics and policemen flocked toward him, leaving Natasha time to slip under the yellow plastic tape. They flipped the limp man onto a waiting gurney. It wasn't Clint.
Natasha disappeared into the shadows, using the chaos to hide herself and search the crowd. Where could he be? She looked up at the warehouse hissing angrily in the flames. Natasha skirted along the police line toward the side of the building. She was close enough to feel the ugly heat on her face when a hand grabbed onto her arm.
"Hey," said Clint.
Natasha punched him lightly in the chest. "Where the hell were you?"
"In one of the ambulances," he said dragging her away.
"What? Are you alright?"
"You can't be seen here." He pulled her behind an empty fire truck. "Charlotte Welch thinks I'm a banker, remember." Once they were hidden, his face softened.
"Clint, are you okay?"
"A beam came down on my shoulder, but it's fine, it's just a little burn."
As the fear of the moment drained away, they remembered that they had barely spoken in a week.
"You scared me."
"Sorry." said Clint. "Listen, I'm fine. We'll talk later; not here. You need to get back to the gallery."
Natasha turned to leave.
"Hey, Natasha. Thanks."
That night, Natasha came home to find Clint sitting on the couch wrestling with his shirt.
"Hey, hey, what are you doing?" Natasha asked, dropping her purse on the table.
"I hate this thing," he growled, clawing at the bandages.
"Stop that," Natasha scolded. "You're just going to hurt yourself more. Let me help." Natasha washed her hands and sat down next to Clint. She gently slipped the arm of his shirt over his shoulder. He winced as she started to peel away the gauze and bandages. "Clint this isn't just a little burn," she said, uncovering his blistered shoulder.
"I know. András gave me the next week off."
"Really?"
"I'm useless to him this way." Clint tried to shrug and clenched his jaw as pain flooded his shoulder.
"Enough of that, tough guy." She grabbed the jar of burn cream where Clint had laid it on the table and began gently applying it to the raw areas of his skin. "You said you wanted to talk. About the fire, I mean."
"Yeah. It was so strange."
"Why?"
"I swear the alarm went off before the fire started. Then all of a sudden the whole place was up in flames," Clint explained.
"You're thinking arson?"
"I have no doubt Szabo set the fire, I just don't know why."
"What could he be wanting to hide so badly? I mean, torching a warehouse full of arms and ammunition, that's a lot to risk." Natasha padded Clint's shoulder with a fresh layer of gauze and picked up the bandage roll. She started just above his elbow, slowly winding the cloth around his wound.
"That's the thing. When that beam came down on me, it took part of the nearest crate with it. Guess what was inside."
"Guns?"
"Paintings."
"What?" said Natasha.
"Huge, old-fashioned oil paintings."
"István must use his brother's company to ship art to his gallery, but he would be stupid to leave one masterpiece in a warehouse like that, let alone a crateful."
"Art forgery doesn't really seem like the TPE's style."
"No, it doesn't," said Natasha. "I'll keep my ears open at the gallery. If any actual priceless masterpieces went up in flames, the art world will be buzzing. Somehow I doubt that's the case though."
"When I go back I'll see if any of the shipping manifestos survived," said Clint.
"When you're ready." Natasha finished the bandage by wrapping his chest several times, then taped it up at his shoulder. She put down the scissors and tape and leaned back on the couch. "You really had me worried today."
"I know," he said. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I would have called, but my phone got left in my locker. I imagine it's just a lump of melted plastic now."
"I figured."
"But you came for me anyway. Why?"
"When we're in a fire fight, I can see whether or not you're okay."
"Technically that was a fire fight, in the most literal sense."
Natasha could't fight the smile that crept over her lips. "You know what I meant."
"Yeah, I do."