A/N Aaaaaaaaaaaa I'm not even going to look at the date on the previous chapter, I don't want to long how long it's been. Sorry! I hate leaving you all hanging. I hope this chapter tides you over until our assassins reunite!
Through a narrow metal grate, Clint watched the sky grow dark. He could hear the alarms blaring from the Counsellor's safe house and decided it was time to leave the miasma of the sewer. The Riad estate was thick with foliage; he was confident he could lurk undetected for at least as long as it would take to secure the counsellor and neutralize Vanalman. After disarming several explosive charges on the nearest manhole cover, he was back on the surface.
Clint quickly scaled the Riad's surrounding fence, and faded into the vegetation. He was thankful for the common Islamic distaste for dogs... it was unlikely Timo had been able to bring any canine units into the stronghold. It was going to make hiding in the shadows much easier.
He prowled around the compound like a large jungle cat, low to the ground and perfectly silent. From the shadows, he analyzed: counted guards, assessed access points and identified possible targets. Over the next half hour, he had not been able to get a visual on either Timo or Counsellor Dodona, but that didn't surprise him. The counsellor would likely be at the center of the compound, away from windows and difficult to reach. Timo would be with him. Standard protocol had the counsellor at maximum risk, and Clint still hadn't figured out what they were going to do if Coulson couldn't get through to him. This was all assuming, of course, that the counsellor was even still alive. If he knew what Timo's goal was, if he knew what psychosis was driving that goddamned, treasonous son of a bitch...
Clint's violent grousing ground to a halt as he trained his binoculars on the back of the Riad Mimoun. Two women, each carrying a large basket of linens, approached the service entrance. They were laughing amiably and herding a small boy between them. Their faces were almost completely covered under bright tahruyt veils, but it didn't make a difference, he knew it was her. A dozen barely definable things screamed her name at him: the dancer's posture, the confident bearing, the way she effortlessly held the basket, the invisible lines of her Pernachs on her hips, scarcely touched by the loose fabric of her mulhafa.
Clint's throat went dry and closed over as he watched Natasha enter the safe house. He was briefly paralyzed. Was she totally fucking insane? What part of "surveil only, stay hidden" had not been clear? She was walking right into the lion's den without back-up. Everyone inside was on high-alert; if Timo saw her, there would be no possibility of her making it out alive.
He lowered his binoculars and sat back on his heels, exhaling slowly. He knew he shouldn't be fuming. He closed his eyes and tried to talk some sense into himself, something to fight the impulse to run after her. Tasha was a more-than-competent operative and she must have seen an opportunity she couldn't miss if she was going counter to his directives. She must have done the risk analysis. She must have assessed the danger and proceeded regardless. Now he needed to figure out the best way to back her up from a distance, it was really no different from so many other missions they had completed together. He took several deep breaths, centering himself. The objectives hadn't changed. Strike Team Delta wasn't going to fail.
Isul's mother was named Taziri. She was sweet and beautiful and had been doing the laundry at the Riad Mimoun since she was in her teens, she told Natasha. She liked the staff there, she said, although sometimes they had important guests and the security got a little crazy. Taziri apologized for the blaring sirens as they crossed the road to the compound. The guards would all be running in circles and yelling into their radios, she laughed brightly, but they would still expect their beds to be changed.
Natasha smiled in agreement behind her tahruyt, but inwardly her mind boggled at the stupidity. The Riad was supposed to be on lockdown. SHIELD protocol dictated that no one was supposed to be going in or out, even service staff, and yet here they were... about to stroll into the stronghold with their arms full of clean linen. Timo was slipping, maybe his duplicity was distracting him from basic operations. She snorted in derision. She was happy to take advantage of that asshole when he was dropping the ball.
Isul skipped along beside them, chattering constantly. He was a babbling steam of consciousness and the way he hopped from thought to thought was making Natasha's head swim. He asked if he could change the pillow cases. He was hungry and asked for an orange. His jellaba was making him itchy. He wanted to play with the new kittens at the Riad... this announcement flummoxed Natasha briefly due to the unfamiliar French word he used, "minou". Children's slang for kitties had strangely not been covered when she did her recent language review.
"Isul, be a good helper and ring the bell," Taziri called to her son as they arrived at the service entrance. Natasha took a half-step into the shadows as the boy pressed the doorbell, and the door flew open several moments later.
A rather harried-looking matron sighed with relief when she saw her laundress. "M'selkhir," she greeted them, ushering them in. She grinned at Isul and rubbed his hair affectionately. "Apologies for the noise and darkness! We have lost our electricity and of course the men are in a panic."
Taziri nodded. "Yes, there is no power at our place either. Lalla Loubna, this is my friend, Lalla Najia. She is helping me with the laundry tonight."
Natasha tilted her head in greeting. "Lalla Loubna, it is an honour."
The matron's eyes narrowed slightly. "A friend, eh? Good... your back has not been good, Taziri, since your fall. It's about time you had someone to help you. Well met, Najia. We have important guests here and they have many guards. Make up all the beds and please work quickly. Everyone is on edge with these infernal alarms and the faster you are out, the better. Isul, why don't you run to the kitchen? Cook made some mescouta today and the little cats need to burn off some energy."
At the mention of baked treats and kittens, Isul's eyes light up and he scampered off. Taziri waved Natasha along, and they carried their baskets up to the living quarters. It was all too easy, Natasha realized. Was it really going to be this simple? Maybe her luck was changing.
For probably the first time ever, Natasha was grateful for all the missions she had spent pretending to be a housekeeping maid. Maybe it was a lack of imagination at SHIELD or maybe it was Director Fury's twisted sense of humour, but it was usually their go-to method for infiltrating hotel rooms. She was a secret master of making beds, whether it was hospital corners or the three-sheet method, a rollaway or a California King. She snapped clean linens throughout the bedrooms at the Riad Mimoun with a speed that had Taziri staring at her in awe.
"Najia, Isul said you were very good at laundry," her new friend murmured, "but I wasn't expecting you to be this good."
Natasha smiled warmly. "I made many, many beds in my time as a housemaid," she said, making up a backstory on the fly. "Before I got married, of course."
Taziri nodded as they bundled dirty laundry into their baskets. "Your husband, what is his name? What does he do?"
Natasha paused for a moment, improvising quickly. "Mohammed," she answered, randomly picking a common name. "Mohammed Bartoun. He is an engineer." Natasha's thoughts had flashed to the field of solar panels and wind turbines they had flown over on the approach to Marrakech.
"He must be a good man," Taziri's eyes sparkled. "I saw the pot of amalou you left at my shop."
Natasha didn't have to try very hard to conjure up a rosy blush. "Um, yes. Well, I was at the Souk el Attarine, and I saw it and... well..." she trailed off, affecting shyness. The other woman laughed heartily.
"Oh Najia, you don't have to explain! Mehdi brings me amalou every week, now that we are trying for another baby! It will make us both fertile, you'll see. You keep it by your bed, it will do its magic while Mohammed does his," Taziri winked.
Natasha's throat had gone dry as, unbidden, her brain supplied images of herself and Barton together. Taziri chuckled at her speechlessness. "Let's get the dirty laundry from the kitchen and find Isul. We'll have to search his jellaba for kittens before we go, he keeps trying to smuggle one home."
The two women returned to the main floor, where a loud argument in English was taking place behind large, closed double doors. They paused awkwardly in the hallway. Taziri winced behind her tahruyt and Natasha's heart began to race... one of the voices was clearly Timo.
"... there is no doubt in my mind that the threat was credible, sir, and I'm absolutely insisting that theta protocol remains in effect..."
"God dammit, you're not listening to me," a gruff voice shouted, interrupting Vanalman's tirade. "I know exactly what theta protocol means, and I know where I can draw the line. Stop intercepting my blue-coded messages, Timo, and get me a direct line to New York before..."
"The threat is from the inside, Counsellor, and we can't rely on New York to be clean..."
Taziri cleared her throat, snapping Natasha's attention away from the doors. "Important men," she said softly, "sounds like they disagree on important things. We should go. Loubna will have the kitchen laundry ready."
Natasha nodded silently, following the laundress back towards the service quarters. Inside, she was gleeful. If cracks were appearing in Timo's plan, that was a boon for them. It would be easy enough to feign a reason to come back to the Riad once the Hasnaouis were safely out of the way... a lost necklace or a forgotten bedspread perhaps. She knew Barton would be on the grounds by now, she needed to meet back up with him. Strike Team Delta wasn't going to fail.