a/n: this was supposed to be one chapter but wound up to be far too long, so now it's two!
.:.
8. (end of may through mid-june; a quick trip to kazakhstan)
.:.
As I feed Kuma, I reflect on what I've learned. This is troublesome.
More importantly, how am I going to tell Russia about this in a way that Estonia won't know? Russia has to know! But I can't send him an email about it, I can't use the pictures, I can't use the timestamp code. Estonia's shown me just now that he's able to crack both. I could try the code with numbers, the poem code, but I have too long a message to send. It'd involve too many numbers to slip into conversation, it would be foolish, it would draw attention. It wouldn't be covert.
Russia has to know that another nation is spying on him.
I can't believe Estonia! This is an outright act of international espionage! And I know he and Russia are never really on the best of terms but you know, he gets by with NATO and the European Union. More and more these days, he's a little on the hotheaded side when dealing with Russia. He talks pretty big. He never does anything though - and his NATO membership and Eurozone alliances mean that it would be senseless for Russia to start anything. Russia would win - of course he'd win - a nation as populous and well-defended as his against tiny, little Estonia? (Though I check the numbers - Estonia's outspending either of his brothers in defence, and that's without even normalising for population!) No, Russia would win, but he'd collapse an economy that he too relies upon. It'd be insane.
But sniping across the table from him in meetings - as far a cry as it is from anything Lithuania or Latvia do (generally nothing) - is one thing. This is an outright provocation, and unless Estonia can prove that Russia started it, it might violate NATO terms.
What's Estonia meaning by betraying his hand to me? This calls into suspect everything I send to Russia by email. Everything! That damned hacker can get his hands on it!
More distressingly, what if Estonia can prove that Russia started it? You can't trust him. In our dealings these past few months, Russia hasn't given me a whole hell of a lot of truth to go on.
What if he's right?
And I can't ask Russia directly, or send anything to him, because his bosses'll know -
... wait. They know... that we're 'dating'.
So why can't I just ask where he'll be in June and then be there myself?
We'll find a way when I get there, to meet up privately, and discuss what to do - maybe there I can tell him that someone is watching him - someone, meaning one of us - and gauge his reaction. I have excellent Baltic relations without having to schmooze my way like at Christmas, I don't want to jeopardise those, so until I can figure out what Estonia's doing and why, I don't want to risk outing him yet.
I take a look at my calendar. I'm doing nothing in June, and then it's holiday season for July, with the world meeting shortly thereafter. (I wonder if Ivan will send me another birthday card.)
Isn't there anything sooner? Maybe I don't have to be invited to it...
The biggest thing I see is the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation. That takes place over two days in the third week of June. That'll have to do.
But it's in Kazakhstan. Would he let me in?
Who else... I check the list of attendees. Russia, naturally; Afghanistan, Belarus, China, India, Turkey, someone from ASEAN will be there looks like Singapore this year -
Wait, India!
India still likes me! I gave him chocolate at Christmas, he has to like me! That's how it works, right?
I ring up India instantly, without remembering that 2:30 in the afternoon my time means it's nearly midnight in New Delhi.
India picks up after four rings. "Bhai, if you were anyone else, I would have let it ring," he says scratchily, like I've woken him up. Sometimes I forget how old he and China are, until they start acting like the grouchy, crotchety old buggers they are. "But I know you, I know you and you don't call. This means big big stuff. Now I am tired, too, so don't be leg-pulling. Cut to cut baat karne ka!"
"S-sorry, I -"
"No apologies! Ah, you waste my time! What is it?"
"I -" India throws me off so easily. It's better I just spit it out without trying to be my usual diplomatic self. "I need you to invite me as guest observer to the SCO," I blurt.
"Eugh. Why would you want to go to this meeting. It is literally the most boring. And Kazakhstan - I mean, nice guy, don't incorrect, Astana's very nice city, but his food? Not that tasty."
"India, you think everybody's food isn't tasty."
"He spent too long with Eastern Europe! His idea of spicy is dill! Should be held in China every year. China makes sure there is soy for people who get gassy with milk. Like China! Maple-ji, I cannot talk to these people."
"S-see? More the reason you need me there!"
India sees right through me, as he always does. "C'mon, what's this all about, really? Why do you want to go?" I don't answer, and he fills in the blanks. "Who are you coming for?"
"There's, uh, someone I need to talk to."
"I see." I catch the sound of some rustling papers in the background on India's end. "And you can't email or call them."
"It's - it's private. I have to speak to them personally, I -"
"Oh. Oh! Hahaha... accha! Yes, I am looking at list of invitees now. Oh yes, I understand. Miss Ukraine is going, CIS representative. You'll want to speak to her, now, won't you!"
Sure! Let's go with that! Thank god for jumping to conclusions. "M-my boss doesn't give me completely unfettered access to my airplanes like some of us. I can go, but I actually have to have, uh, a pretense for going. You see my predicament?"
"Yes, I understand," says India. "Alright! I did say I'd help. You're in. You'll get email sometime tomorrow maybe. Now let me sleep!"
In the meantime... maybe I can think up something better. In case Russia tries to send anything, thinking the coast is still clear.
I could call him. Russia gave me his number, didn't he? Assuming that Estonia doesn't have access to our phone records - though I don't know if I can assume that, since certainly his bosses do.
Suppose I talked acrostically, with the first letter of every sentence spelling something out. I could warn him not to send anything, that we've been compromised. I could warn him that we need to talk in person, at the working group. If we're lucky, his bosses - and mine - will assume the same thing India did: that I'm there for simple, innocent, romantic reasons.
It's risky. Conveying to Russia that there's a code subtly enough that he gets it, but not so obviously that anybody else listening in wises up.
I sketch up a quick message and put my thinking cap on before I dial out to Russia. It's not quite as late there as it is in India - should be two hours behind, so call it about 10:30? He'll still be up.
Russia picks up the phone after two rings. "Allo?" he says, and I know it's allo because France told me it was, but his o's are strange, and it sounds more like "a-lo-uh?"
Still, it's more exotic than it should be and even the sound of his voice kind of has me weak at the knees. I take a seat at the kitchen table. Kuma-beast, having finished his dinner, moves to nap on my feet, exhaling foul fish breath. I nudge him around so his mouth points the other way. "H-hey, uh. Russia. It's, um. It's me. It's. Um, Canada."
"Ah. Hello, 'me'!" He giggles. "Yes, I thought I noticed country code 1. Did not recognise everything else. Then ... this is you?"
"Uh, yeah." This is awkward. How do I start this? "Uh, li- listen. I, um."
"Only wanted to hear my voice?" Russia murmurs. I can hear the smile in his words.
I grin, although he can't hear that, and say, "I don't suppose there exists any such thing as a private line for you, does there."
"Ah, no. There is no such thing. No matter how you want to speak, there will always be others...watching. Don't let it stop you!"
"Mm-hmm," I say. "Well. That'll complicate things. First of all..."
"First of all," Russia echoes. "Yes, first things first. That's wise! Let me... get something here..." I hear a grunt and then a click of a pen. "Tak! Yes, proceed!"
His putting emphasis on this leads me to suspect he knows how to decode the following, so I begin the message. "Yeah, first of all, that's right. So I managed to get into the, um, the SCO meeting, the one Kazakhstan's hosting, if you wanted to meet up?"
"This is in two weeks!" He sounds delighted.
"Understandably, it's short notice. So if you can't make it I get it, but maybe you can spare some time. Please? Evening, maybe just a half hour. Could you ask your bosses? There's a nice place I know, or we could just hang out at my hotel."
"Ah." The scritching on Russia's end stops and he re-involves himself in the conversation. "It is short notice, I must ask. I think maybe they let me! But probably, my hotel room, not yours. I admit, I am surprised. I thought our ... emails. With pictures, you know. I thought I had offended you." The words only sound apologetic out of context. Russia's tone of voice tells me he isn't very sorry at all. "I had to work so hard to get that out of you, was, how you say, like pulling teeth!"
"Pulling something," I snap.
"Oh, don't be mad," he coos. "I like you, I can't help myself!"
"I, uh, I'm flattered. 'Cause I feel, um, the same way." Oh my god kill me I am so awkward. At least that fit with the message.
"Do you!" Russia giggles. Then his voice goes from childish chuckle to dark lust in two seconds and I'm almost too taken aback to continue with the code. "What if you show me," he all but purrs. "Let me listen to you."
He can't be suggesting -!
Oh, no. He is.
Weren't the pictures bad enough!?
I guess if he wants to tick off his bosses this is the right way to do it. Teach them not to listen into a private conversation. I imagine Russia defending himself: my boyfriend sent me a picture like that, and then he calls me, he lives across the world, what did you expect me to do? Oops, couldn't help it! My hand just snuck into my pants all on its own!
If they overhear what's evidently - um, phone sex - then there's no way they'll suspect there's really a code going on in here.
But I wonder if Russia will ... follow through, so to speak. We could just act it out without actually... y'know. Nobody's watching to see if we really do.
Well. Nobody's watching me.
I think.
Then again, he did send me a seriously lewd picture of himself. And then I sent him a dick pic - for fuck's sake, how much more following through can we do?
(I need to start accepting the conclusion that we're almost certainly going to wind up in bed with each other.)
Okay. I have to. Get a hold of myself.
Not literally!
...Maybe literally. I'm still pent up from before.
What's the next bit in the message, let me see here.
"That's an idea," I say. "Unfair, though."
"You want a picture of your very own? You can just come see it for yourself in two weeks. Until then, however... I'll give you a show like this?"
"Race you, loser comes first," I joke. "Buys dinner in Kazakhstan?"
He laughs a breathy, short laugh. "I'll lose," he sighs. "I like what I see too much."
"Evidently. So, what are you wearing?"
Russia laughs long and loud. "This is a good time, I was in shower, so ... ah. Not very much. Not very much at all."
"Cold?"
"Not very."
"Really."
"It's true! The towel is - short, and mostly wet, but my bed is warm." An image pops into my mind, of Russia with his face as it was in the picture he sent me - his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted - now paired with him wearing nothing but a scandalously short towel, riding up his thighs. Uncomfortable, I clear my throat. Russia pitches his voice a little lower. "I like to pretend is because you are here with me, hm?"
"After everything I've said to your bosses, I don't think they'd let me so close to you without a lot of, um. Coercion, first. Kinda spoils any spontaneity."
"I don't need any of that," says Russia. "I just need you, next to me. Or on top of me. I am not picky."
Acting though it might be, Russia's bedroom voice is getting to me. "E-either or's good. Don't mind."
"Or, perhaps I am on top, I press you down, holding you by shoulders, kissing you senseless. First on your mouth, then down your neck, down your chest. You love it, in my thoughts, you can hardly move, can't hear two words not moaned. You squirm beneath me, you arch up and rub yourself on any part of me you can touch. I feel us - aah - slide together."
He speaks thinly, breathily, his words panted through the phone. It sounds like he has his phone pressed to his ear by his shoulder on the same side, so that it leaves both his hands free. I imagine his bare legs are spread under the covers, the towel having fallen open a long time ago, one hand with the pen marking down what I say, the other on his cock.
Because that's exactly what it sounds like he's doing. I can hear the shift of skin on skin, the hitches in his breath, every single crack in his voice on the words - it's a bit of a struggle to hear them.
I realise I'm straining for it. Trying to pick all the sounds out. Trying to listen.
And it feels like I've never been harder than I am now.
I kick Kuma-thinga-whatsit off my feet - he grunts unhappily but leaves the kitchen to go pad over to the couch and sleep on that instead. I'll give him extra fish later. It'd just feel weird, masturbating in the kitchen with the bear nearby.
It should feel weirder than it does, to unzip my pants in broad daylight in my kitchen, but nobody else is home but me, and the blinds are mostly drawn, and even so, the window faces the backyard. Nobody knows, surely!
Nobody knows except Russia, who catches the sound of the zip and begins to chuckle. "Yes," he says. "You like what you hear. You like how you hear me?"
"And can you blame me? Listening to you, you - fuck, you get me so hard. Love your voice."
"Ahh," Russia gasps into the phone. "Not many people say this. I expected to hear something else. That instead you love this idea of me on top of you, rubbing against you. You love my hand on your cock, my mouth on your body. What will you let me do to you, Canada? I hold you down, you can't move so easily, there is much I could do. Where do you want my mouth first?"
"Cock, fuck, want your mouth on my cock," I say, as I finally wrap a hand around myself after hearing Russia talk on and on about it. It feels too good for me to worry about people listening in. "Oh, god, yes."
"You like it?"
"Damn right I do. Every time I think about last week, in Italy, it's all I can think about, about you. Sucking me off."
"I could do it again," he moans. "But we do something different. I don't want boring. People get bored and stop playing with me, I must be a bit creative. So I spread your legs a little wider. You let me, yes?"
"Creative? Oh you don't have to do anything fancy. Me, I'm not going anywhere. Please, Russia -"
"I have told you, like this, call me Ivan. And I decide what we do! So yes, I lick you, alright - I put my mouth at the root of your cock and lick it up to tip - this lets me watch you arch and squirm. You like very much. I can tell. You are already wet in my mouth. I can taste you. Are you ready?"
"Ready?" What for? All he has to do is keep reminding me about his glorious mouth and I'll come pretty quick. "Oh, uh. Maybe."
"Hmm! Good, then while you're properly distracted, as you move wetly past my lips, in and out of my mouth, I slip a hand between your legs and trace around your hole with a finger, before I put it inside you."
I'm shocked out of the code again. The idea simultaneously terrifies me and arouses me - part of me craves the kind of intimacy which this relationship is approaching at a fair pace, and the other part -
don't send him this
you can't trust him
- the other part wants to heed a warning, which took some courage to send and must therefore be important.
Whatever, this isn't real. It's just a fantasy. "Ivan," I sigh, and let my legs fall open a little wider.
"You're so hot and tight around me, I want nothing more than to add another, and then take you properly, aah, I want so much, you can't know, I could come right now thinking of it, can you hear me? Can you hear how badly I want you?"
"So come for me," I breathe.
The next few seconds are Russia alone, moaning into the phone, with a squeaking sound behind him - the mattress, probably, as he thrusts into his hand and I try to match his pace on the other side of the line, until his movements grow frantic, his voice grows desperate, and he groans once more, long and loud, in my ear.
"Enough for you?" If he's been paying attention to the words he'll know the message is basically finished. But it'd be a shame to be left hanging here.
"Not yet," he says. "You're not finished."
"Don't worry about me," I lie.
That's it, that's the message. Suspect pictures cracked all codes compromised. There's no need to say anything more. If he's got it he'll know we need to meet as soon as possible, in June, over the days in Kazakhstan at the working group. We'll have to figure out something new.
He can disconnect any time he likes.
"But I must! So we continue, yes? Yes! Let me think... I have prepared for this, of course. I distract you again, so thoroughly that you don't notice second finger, or slickness, as I slip in and out of your body, and you slip in and out of mine. But before too long, you push back against me, is how I know you want, too. You thrust back your body, moving towards me - yes - fucking yourself on my fingers. You want me to fuck you, Canada?"
It's only fair.
"M-matthew," I pant, "you can call me Matthew."
"Matthew," he growls. It sends shivers down my spine. I'm close, so close, and I speed up the rhythm on my dick, thinking of Russia's mouth... of Russia's fingers. "I like it, is nice name."
"O-or Matt, just Matt is fine. Fuck, Ivan, oh, don't stop."
Russia chuckles low and dangerous in my ear. "But I do stop, only briefly. I take my mouth off your cock, I remove my fingers from your body. I sit up in front of you, between your legs, and spread them farther with mine. Ah, yes, you know what comes next. You watch me slick myself up, your eyes grow large. Yes, is nice name, I like it - I think, as I place the head of my cock at your ass - but I think, I would really rather call you mine."
And in the fantasy he's concocted, I imagine him thrust inside me - oh - Russia between my legs, his mouth on my neck, kissing me, little flicks of tongue teasing me, and finally he says, with lowered eyelids and a bedroom voice, thick accent and all - thank you Matvei, this helps me so much, you are so helpful, my hero -
The thought has me moaning, shouting, as I come. Orgasm takes me by surprise and overwhelms me. I barely get a hold over the tip of my cock so I don't spill all over the underside of the kitchen table.
I let myself indulge in the afterglow for a few seconds. Ivan, on the other side, chuckles. "Was nice, yes?" I moan, somewhat incoherently. "I lost!" he says. "What a shame. So I will pay for dinner, yes? When you arrive?"
"Oh, you don't have to do that," I tell him. I was mostly joking. For the sake of the code.
"Nonsense! I like treating. And you are only going to be there for me so I must insist. Consider, is something against flight cost. Yes?"
"I don't worry about that, trust me."
He tuts. "Ah, but I do. Anyway, speaking of costs I am sure this is an expensive call - I will let you go."
"Alright," I say. "See you in two weeks."
"Hmm! I look forward to it," he replies.
I hang up the phone.
.:.
Two weeks later finds me at the international airport in Astana, boarding a cab for the city. I have a hotel picked out - not one I told Colin about, trust me. When I arrive at the conference the following morning, Kazakhstan pulls me aside.
He's taller - and thinner - than I remember, with shockingly dark hair, cut cropped short, dark eyes, and a mouth with corners tilted permanently down. He has skin a warmer colour tone than Russia and epicanthic folds on his eyes but the large, aquiline nose is a feature I recognise as something vaguely Eastern European. If he were smiling, he'd be handsome, but I've never seen him smile and today is no exception. "What are you doing here?" he asks gruffly.
"India didn't tell you?" He shakes his head. I hold out an email printout of what India had sent me. "I'm observing. Just here for fun, though, really."
Kazakhstan squints at me after he's done reading the printout. I give him my nicest smile.
"Oh, yes," he says, finally recognising me. "The north one. Yes? Not your brother, the south one. America. Not him."
"Exactly," I reply. Not America.
Kazakhstan shrugs and hands me the paper back. "Okay, it's your time," he says, and leaves me with three tourist brochures for the capital city.
I tag around for India a bit, but India has some work to do here and leaves me in the afternoon to go off on my own. Time to find Russia.
Well, I find Russia, alright, and he's surrounded by his bosses. Surely they know I'm here? We did give them advance notice.
I walk up to the group of six people - Russia and his two bosses I recognise, the three security agents, dressed in three-piece suits and sunglasses, I don't. "Hey," I say, to Russia.
"He has nothing to say to you!" snaps Petrova.
"I wasn't talking to his bosses," I reply smoothly, without looking at her. I smile, making it clear my next question is directed only to Russia. "Are you free for dinner?"
Russia opens his mouth to reply but Borovsky interrupts and talks over him. "Perhaps we can work something out. This is Korovyev," he gestures to the blond security agent, who glares harder. "He can serve as chaperone, yes?"
A romantic dinner for three is not entirely what I'd had in mind. "And after dinner?" I try to make it clear through my tone of voice what I mean by after.
Korovyev steps forward a bit. He's the thinner of the three of them, and shorter; about my height and build. The other two are hulking brutes, probably hired by the FSB for bulk alone. Korovyev looks smarter than they are, which is more dangerous.
"After, there will still be chaperone," Borovsky says.
"Excuse me?" I ask.
Russia gives me a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry," he says, "I tried!"
"You have had enough shenanigans to last you awhile," Petrova says pointedly. "And anyway, I don't see why you need to be alone."
"I'm sure Korovyev here is a stand up guy," I begin - Korovyev snorts. Then I give Russia a sour smile and say, "So you go have fun with him, eh?" I spin on my heel and stride away angrily.
It's not the best bluff I could've made, but it's what I could do on the spot. Behind me, I hear Russia say in a panicked voice, "Ah, Canada - wait -!" before the utterance dies in his throat and his voice is masked by at least three more, speaking in fast, angry Russian.
We're not licked yet. I just have to think up an attack strategy.
Elevators? I walk by them and one dings. My cheeks warm. No, thank you. Already tried that.
I turn the corner out of sight from Russia and his entourage, facing the escalator to the second floor, to catch my breath. I need something that has ease of egress, I think carefully, leaning on the wall. That would be ideal. And preferably two different methods of access.
The wall behind me clicks and moves backwards.
It's a door - I hadn't even noticed. It's marked 'Emergency Exit' on the push bar, which I've engaged with my backside.
But don't emergency exits typically have alarms? And remain locked unless an alarm is sounded? I wonder if Kazakhstan has had this tested in the last...ever.
Although, not so secretly, I'm glad. A stairwell, eh? That could work.
I slip inside the stairwell and climb the flight of stairs quickly. They lead to the second floor, between two conference rooms. According to India's schedule there are two on-going sessions this afternoon with the group divided, to culminate in talks with the whole group tomorrow.
This is pretty perfect, come to think of it.
I hang out here until I meet India, dragging Ukraine by the hand. "Where have you been?" he asks. "Never mind, I don't care. So! Look who I found!"
She looks sheepish and embarrassed. "You can let go," she says shyly, "I won't run away."
I say a few polite words to them both but allow India to dominate the conversation. This lets me keep more of an eye on Russia, over India's shoulder. As he and the group that follows him around slowly files into the meeting room, I send him a message from my phone.
.:.
From: matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca
To: pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru
Date: June 20, 15:00
Subject: plans
Behind the conference centre, there's a nice boardwalk. Since they won't let you be alone for more than two seconds, do you want to talk a quick walk maybe later tonight? I'll tolerate a chaperone, but only the blond guy.
.:.
I watch as Russia receives it on his phone. He looks around, a bit furtively, and then finally behind him. I see him spot the door. He turns around again and meets my eyes.
I scratch my temple with one finger, and then point it down casually, as I lie to Ukraine what I've been doing for May. Oh, you know, lots of paperwork, taking care of the bear, helping plant the tulips for the festival, having sex with your little brother. The usual.
Russia winks in reply - I assume that means he got the point. Go down one floor. Use the stairwell. I'll meet him there after the meeting.
The meeting, as I find out, in Conference room A, is incredibly boring. India's there, Ukraine's there. Russia isn't, and must be with the other half of the conference goers in Conference room B.
I'd also like to note that this meeting is one of the most boring ones I've ever been to, and I go to a lot of boring meetings.
Around the table are India, myself, Ukraine (don't think that escaped my attention, how India finagled that), Turkey, Sri Lanka, Mongolia, Iran, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and China, with respective bosses. The remainder of the organisation is in Conference room B, and I overhear something about how Belarus is attempting (unsuccessfully) to dominate the discussion to try and repair her recent friction with Russia. It leads into something about 'more foreign observers' that I don't quite catch - I must not be the only uninvited one here. It's quickly followed by a comment of it being unnecessary to have all one's bosses here. China seems pleased that I've come alone.
Anyway, we have a nice discussion about resources and which I only barely follow because my Chinese is not what it used to be. I wind up doodling a lot on my paper. There's something interesting said about counterterrorism but the details mostly escape me. For the most part the focus is on economic cooperation, which everybody seems happy about, China most of all.
As we finally exit at five, I watch Russia's bosses speaking with the blond man, Korovyev.
I realise...
Those cheekbones, his face. It's somehow familiar.
It's when he gesticulates wildly, looking angry ...
And his hair! Nobody has hair like that past the age of seven, a bowl cut?
That's Estonia!
It's Estonia alright, and he's mad about something.
Normally he's pretty calm, though I recall making the mistake of inquiring about Russia once in the 90's and got a lengthly rant about independence for my troubles. That's how I know what he looks like when he's pissed off. He's speaking with Petrova who is just as irate - Borovsky to his credit looks ticked.
Importantly, all three of them are mostly ignoring Russia.
I watch on as Russia pauses, hesitates, until the other two security guards are busy - he pretends to fiddle with his phone - and then he vanishes behind them and slips past the emergency exit.
Now's my chance! I turn to get to the escalator -
- only to face my brother.
"Alfred!" I exclaim.
Now Estonia, I can understand. I don't like it, but I understand. It has to do with the code, I bet.
And he's not dumb, he must've figured out what we were really doing over the phone. Which means he was listening in.
But Alfred.
What the hell is my brother doing here?!
I gulp, feeling caught red-handed, and am struck with an overwhelming urge to run away as fast as I can.
"Hey Mattie," says Alfred, affecting a casual tone, with a friendly smile, but I'm not convinced. His arms are folded across his chest and his eyes don't have that same impish glimmer that they usually do. This is serious. "Whatcha up to?"
"Th-that's personal," I tell him. "What're you up to, eh, what're you doing here?"
Alfred shrugs. "Same."
And that's when I realise something. Alfred here - and Estonia here too - and Al isn't exactly the world's biggest Russia-fan either - "You're in league with Estonia. That's how this is working!"
Al looks completely confused. "In - Est- what? No, I haven't spoken to him since the world meeting last July."
"Then why are you here? You have no reason to be -"
"To be fair," snaps Al, "neither do you."
"- and you're interfering. You're doing it on purpose. Someone's told you and put you up to this."
"And that someone is me," finishes a voice behind me.
I turn, but I know that voice, I know its accent, its unctuous timbre putting up a front of constant over-confidence. I know who it is.
Gilbert looks at least a little bit apologetic. "Sorry, Mattie," he says, "but you've been acting very strange lately."
Et tu, Brute? I think acidly.
But then... My question remains, why is Estonia here?
I chance a look over - Russia's bosses are still in a heated conversation with Estonia, although one of the other security agents is looking around wildly, like he's lost something very important and valuable. Like a nation.
I don't have the time for this. Russia may already be a flight below. If he's smart - and I suspect he is - he'll be waiting within the stairwell until he spots me, but I can't have his bosses find him first.
"Hey, would you look at the time," I say, lifting my watchless wrist. And then I duck, roll out from between them and get to my feet to scramble away.
I can't hit the escalator - or where Russia is hiding - until I've lost my brother, and unless I get lucky he will be very difficult to lose.
I dart past the lobby to the hall with the elevators and press the button, but I don't wait around for it, hoping it'll distract them. Instead I take off to the stairwell and climb a flight, two at a time. I'll have to doubleback to the escalator.
"Goddamn- Mattie!" hisses Alfred. It echoes in the concrete of the stairwell. Well, I tried. "Get back here!"
"I'll explain it later!" I yell back.
"You'd better!" shouts Gilbert.
I sneer back from two landings above, "Not to you, you Judas."
Gilbert looks taken aback, and so crushed that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
Alfred's still on my tail. I leave the stairwell. It's a long hallway I find myself in, mostly empty, just hotel rooms. Not much to go on. About five metres to my left there's a door closing with the tail end of a cart turning the corner - I assume that room is for housekeeping. I quickly slip inside and snap it shut behind me. I'm right - it's pitch dark in here, but from what I can tell groping around, it's something of a linen closet.
If I'm lucky...
I hear Alfred's footsteps outside the door. "C'mon, Matt," he says. "What's going on here? Open up."
I don't reply.
He's bluffing. He doesn't know where I am.
The footsteps stop outside the door.
I hold my breath.
A moment passes...
Then I hear a whispered, "Goddammit," and a huff of air impatiently exhaled, and the footsteps keep walking on. I overhear Al talk to the housekeeping person who speaks no English but communicates as best she can in stilted Russian - which neither Al nor I speak too well either.
As Alfred continues to engage her, trying to overcome both their language barriers, I slip outside the door.
It closes with a click.
Alfred stops speaking.
Dammit! My heart leaps in my chest and I try the doorknob to the housekeeping office again. It has automatically locked.
What will I do? He'll be right here - I should run -
But wait.
I have an extra tool at my disposal, don't I?
As Alfred turns down the hall I engage the invisibility, fade out of sight, and press myself against the wall.
And my brother runs right past me without even knowing I'm there.
Free! I don't have to run but I should walk quickly - I don't know how long Russia will be able to wait in the stairwell, whether he's been able to avoid detection either by his bosses or by Prussia, who I'm not certain followed my brother for very long.
There's another set of stairs down the other end of the floor, and I quickly fly down a level to the second floor. I exit, hoping that nobody will notice a door being opened by nobody.
I'm sort of in luck on that front. Nobody notices me, alright, but that's because Petrova and Borovsky are freaking the hell out. Korovyev - Estonia - is shouting and of the two security guards in their retinue, one looks sheepish and abashed and the other is talking angrily into a cellphone. Kazakhstan is nearby with his boss - a flat-faced pudgy man with a neck that's red from trying to burst from its shirt collar and tie confines - and both of them are trying their best to placate Petrova and Borovksy. Most people are looking on in horror - some are trying to appease Russia's bosses - and many of the other nations (Ukraine and India included) are discussing things furtively amongst themselves, behind cupped hands.
I make my way as quickly as possible to the escalator, thankfully deserted. I take the steps two at a time and in record speed get to the emergency exit stairwell and slip inside.
Russia's still there waiting for me. He's noticed the door opening and is alarmed.
I drop the cloak. He outright gasps and takes a step back. "How did -"
"No time to explain. Someone's been -"
Russia moves quickly to cover my mouth with a kiss. Out of shock, I go limper than I'd like to admit, and passively let him. He grabs me by the waist, spins me around, presses me into the wall and deepens the kiss.
Between kisses, he murmurs against my lips, "Cameras." His hand sweeps up my arm, splayed fingers on my chest, leads to my jaw where he cups my face to control the kiss better.
"My - mmph - my room?" I ask.
"Bugged," he whispers, then dives in again to tangle our tongues together.
My room is what?! I'm outraged.
Well, okay, I should be outraged, but I'm being expertly kissed and that makes it really hard to be anything but turned on.
"Your room?"
"Bugged too," says Russia, moving down to hide his face in the crook of my neck, where he sucks and nips the skin a bit harder than he needs to. It's embarrassingly arousing. I don't want to do this in a stairwell with cameras watching! "But, is good point. I know where bugs are in my room. Not in yours."
In a voice that sounds more like a moan than I want it to, I tell him, "Lead the way?"
"No," he says, "room 409. If you can become invisible, do so. Is best. I go alone - can't be seen. These cameras -"
"They have access to footage," I realise.
"Exactly." Russia pushes away from me to look up at the stairwell. "Hmm," he says, deciding. It's uncomfortably cold where he was pressed against me. "I will take stairs. Fourth floor, remember."
I nod. "Got it."
He darts away, his long coat and scarf flying behind him, as he takes the stairs two at a time. I switch on the disappearing act.
I leave the security of the stairwell only after I hear the echoes of a door open, four floors above me. If there's anybody on the opposite side, I don't want to draw attention until after Russia's out of the stairwell.
Sure enough, there's a security guard - not one of Russia's, must be one of Kazakhstan's - waiting outside and he says something gruff when I depart. He looks puzzled - the door couldn't just have opened on its own, could it?
But there's nobody there.
I slip by him easily and make my way to the escalator to the second floor.
Second floor is a buzz of noises and calamity. Every nation I can see is shouting - India and Ukraine appear to have joined the fray, and both of them have completely forgotten about me. (For once, good!) Petrova is apoplectic and Borovsky looks like he wants to strangle Estonia. Jesus, you'd think they'd lost the Holy Grail, not the country they're in charge of. They're supposed to trust him at least a little! The fact that they obviously don't is more than a bit screwed up.
My brother and Prussia are on the other side, talking quietly amongst themselves.
I don't know how I missed it before. Al's not in league with Estonia at all, he's in it with Gil. Or maybe Gil brought it up with him. Who even knows.
No, wait. I know, because how else did Prussia get a hold of the rumour that I was looking for things about Turkey? I only asked America and England, and England told me he wasn't the one who had contacted Prussia. It must've been my brother!
And it explains their mention of extra foreign observers here - I'll bet America blustered his way in enough to permit Prussia as his guest.
And they sure were chummy over Thanksgiving! Apparently I'm not the only one who uses parties to schmooze.
What is my brother doing?!
I'll have to shelve that for a later time. For the moment, I lose them all and find the elevators. With everybody else so distracted, I easily take one to the fourth floor. In the cacophony, nobody even seems to hear the ding of the cabins or questions why one is opening and nobody is getting on or off.
The fourth floor is relatively quiet so far. I don't know how long we've got. I imagine they'll figure to check Russia's room eventually - although, perhaps not. Since they clearly don't trust him, maybe Petrova and Borovsky will assume he's anywhere but where he should be, in his room. With his pretend-boyfriend.
I knock very softly on door 409.
It opens a crack. The chain-lock is engaged. "No housekeeping, please," says Russia stiffly, and then moves to shut the door again.
I block the door with my shoe. "It's me," I whisper.
Russia's eyes dart back and forth frantically, panicking, but then he nods. I move my foot, and he closes the door. I hear the slide of the chain lock as he undoes it.
The door opens wide. Russia looks dishevelled - like he's run up four flights of stairs - and his shirt is open the first few buttons. He looks a lot like he did in the picture he sent me. Inexplicably, my mouth waters.
Jesus, I have to get it together!
Russia says, "Come in," but as he does so, he rubs his eyes, and then scratches his ears. It's a practiced motion that looks perfectly casual. It makes my heart sink. It means there are cameras, and microphones.
How am I going to get answers out of him like this?