After Raivis got caught for smuggling and playing illegal music in Moscow (or, more accurately, his antics made Natalia look bad and she got on Ivan's case for letting him get away with it) Ivan decided to "hire" Raivis as his personal assistant abroad. This oneshot covers Raivis's first trip with Ivan to a World Meeting. Enjoy.
This was to be Raivis's first time outside of the Eastern Block since the war, and he was not going to screw it up.
…and the last time, he had been a captive in the Nazi Estate in Berlin, so it hadn't exactly been a vacation.
But this was different. This was a world meeting, in which Raivis would get to meet nations from the West he hadn't seen in fifteen years. And most importantly: Raivis had an important job.
"Passport."
"Yes, I-I mean da!"
The airport employee narrowed her eyes as she took Raivis's passport and checked his photo. He blushed, worrying that the language slip would cause suspicion. But with Russia standing behind him like a towering statue, rank displayed on his dress uniform, one glance behind Raivis was all the officer needed to know his documents were genuine.
"Next," she said, sounding bored as she handed Raivis his passport.
Raivis took it, fumbling with his briefcase to slip it back into the pocket. You idiot, you're not in London yet! Watch the English!
Thrilled by the opportunity to practice his English, Raivis had been reviewing vocabulary with Toris in the evenings. The irony was, he wasn't even supposed to speak English at the meetings at all.
"You are not to communicate with any of the other nations, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Russia placed a small pin in front of Raivis on the desk. It was a red rectangle with a dark blue wavy stripe at the bottom, and a yellow hammer and sickle in the left corner.
"Tell me, Latvia, what do you see there."
"My flag, sir."
"Exactly. Your flag. Your flag and my flag are connected, da? Just as your flag is connected to Lithuania's, Kazakhstan's, Armenia's… and so on." Russia gestured to a picture frame on his desk of all of the Soviet republics posing for an official photo. "When you are walking through the halls of these meeting rooms – when you are passing those Western nations and their aides and their interns and when you see maids and janitors and bus boys filling that hotel to the brim – I want you to think about your flag. What you represent, the fourteen other nations you represent in those hallways."
Raivis swallowed.
There was a dangerous glow in Russia's eyes, but for once the anger was not directed at Raivis. "They will see that pin on your jacket and they will know who you are, Latvia. They will see you as a direct line of leverage and national secrets to use against me, Lithuania, Estonia, and every single one of your hardworking citizens. They will smile, they will feel sorry for you. They will offer you 'a way out' and extra snacks and maybe even some of their own intel. They will bend down to talk to you, they will think you are cute and vulnerable and that you can't keep secrets and that you hate me and you hate this job. And they will most likely speak to you in English." Russia's eyes narrowed. "So, Latvia. What will you do in this situation?"
"Not say anything," Raivis said.
"Not a word. You are to be my eyes and ears. You are not a spokesperson for the USSR, do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"They will treat you like it. They will try to ask your opinion, they will coax and pry and maybe even force it out of you as much as international law will allow. You must understand the importance of your role, Latvia, the immense amount of trust I am placing on you to stay silent. Spies are everywhere; don't ever assume your room isn't bugged."
"Yes, sir."
"And if you do let something slip – even so much as a word or a missing piece of paper – then not only will you instantly lose this job, you will lose your traveling privileges to Riga and it will be a Latvian who takes the fall for it."
"Yes, sir."
"That means everyone in contact with them – their family, friends, coworkers – gets arrested and interrogated by the KGB. I don't make the rules; those are the simple facts of how this works."
"I know, sir."
Russia leaned back in his chair, and a coy smile flickered across his face. "Prove to the intelligence authorities that I'm right about you, Latvia. You smuggled music for over a year under the KGB's radar. Now let's see how you do on the world stage."
This first trip was nothing more than a test.
A test, Raivis told himself as he saluted the soldiers on the tarmac and took the first step onto the private plane that would fly him, Russia, and their entourage to London — to see if he was fit for the job. If he could be invisible, carry Russia's notes and bring him coffee, and not break under the pressure of Western nations trying to glean info.
If Raivis could really do it – if he could prove that he was fit to be Russia's international assistant – then he would have his passport checked and board private planes dozens of times. He would get to eat lunch in cafes in London, Brussels, and Paris. He would get to see the outside world, and for the first time since the war, he would get to feel like a nation again.
No more cleaning that stupid, ugly house, he huffed to himself as he took his seat by a small airplane window.
Raivis's heart was beating so fast, he felt it would leap right out of his chest. He hadn't been this excited about something since winning independence became possible.
"Are you nervous?"
There was amusement in Russia's deep voice as he took the aisle seat next to Raivis. Raivis jumped in surprise.
"What, no, sir I-I'm not nervous!"
A wry smile. "You spoke English to that officer."
"I-I'm sorry, it won't happen again!"
Russia held him frozen in that violet gaze for a moment, then he huffed to himself at some unknown joke. "I'm sitting next to you on these flights so we can review the meeting notes before we arrive in enemy territory."
Raivis straightened in his chair, his attention no longer out the window. "Right," he said, all business.
"We'll be discussing trade across the Arctic. These are my talking points." Russia handed Raivis a thick ream of paper with paragraphs of typed text. "I want you to familiarize yourself with these before we arrive at the meeting. I know what I'm going to say; what I don't know is what the Western nations will say. I don't want you getting distracted with our own stance on the issue."
The seats rattled as the private plane began to taxi to the runway.
"Your job in that meeting room is going to be watching and listening. You'll be taking notes on what all the other nations are saying. Once you get enough practice, you should be able to use shorthand and remember most of it word-for-word."
Raivis's head spun. This job was going to be harder than he thought.
Russia again sounded amused, "Is there a problem, Latvia?"
"What, no! I can… take notes, that's no problem."
"Good, because I'll be giving you feedback on how to improve them. You have to know the difference between what's important, and what's not." Russia glanced to his right, then nodded in the direction of an officer across the plane aisle. His voice fell to a whisper, "Tell me what you notice about that man."
The plane picked up speed, but Raivis had no time to enjoy the thrill of taking off in the midst of Russia's questions. The roar of the plane engine was too loud for Russia to hear his answer, so instead Raivis observed the officer during takeoff. The officer's face was carved by hardened lines, his expression unmoving and posture slouched as he flipped through notes on a clipboard.
When the engine noise died down and the plane leveled off, Raivis said, "He's a Major General in the Red Army. He's flown before."
"Is he wearing a wedding ring?"
"No…"
"So you think he doesn't have kids?"
Raivis blinked at Russia. "Why is that important?"
"Kids mean leverage. If you can find his family, you can get him to do almost anything. Check again for the wedding ring."
Raivis tried to squint across the aisle without seeming too obvious. "There's… a discoloration. His fingers are tan except for a band on his ring finger."
"Lavrov divorced his wife last month. He hasn't been focusing well because of troubles at home. His guard is down more than usual; it would be easier to slip a document out of his briefcase or hotel room without him noticing."
Raivis's breath grew still as his gaze slowly moved back to Russia.
"You told me his rank and that he's used to airplanes. But if you learn how to notice the important things, it can make all the difference. Now." Violet eyes searched the airplane, and in that moment, Raivis felt that for the first time he was getting a front-row seat to how Russia thinks.
"Tell me about that flight attendant," Russia said.
~/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/~
London was like nothing Raivis had ever seen.
People wearing clothes of all colors, shapes, and bizarre styles flowed through the streets in a buzzing river. Bright lipstick and dyed hair, short skirts and tattoos – it felt as if the underground jazz bars had been punctured and spilled like paint all across the city. Raivis thought he heard a familiar sound. The car neared a pedestrian street, and Raivis pressed both hands against the window and exclaimed,
"It's a saxophone!"
The KGB agent at the wheel gave a disapproving cough. Raivis jolted back into his seat and folded his hands in his lap. Even so, he snuck a glance out the window as they passed a street performer with an open saxophone case on the curb, passerby's tossing money into the case. The sultry tone of the saxophone floated through the air, the performer's eyes closed as she seemed lost in the music.
"Did I mention that Galante here plays the trumpet?" Russia said to the agent, for some reason thinking the situation funny. He gave Raivis a knowing smile. "He's quite good."
Raivis's face grew hot. Somehow his days of playing at underground jazz gigs felt silly now.
"Ah, there it is." Russia nodded out the window. "Our hotel."
Raivis craned his neck to see the huge glass building, its spire scraping the underside of London's famous grey clouds. The windows reflected the sky in a strange effect that made the building seem invisible. It reminded him of the spaceships and futuristic technology he'd read about in science fiction novels.
The car pulled to a stop, and the agent and Russia stepped out. Raivis pushed his own door open, and he was barely out for a moment before rapid chatter in a foreign language drew his attention.
It was a high-pitched voice, expressive and pleading – Raivis's eyes were drawn to a red-haired man imploring an almost identical dark-haired man with him as they both dragged suitcases up the hotel sidewalk.
Raivis stood and stared at the pair in shock as it hit him who these two men were. Italy and Romano. He had last seen them broken and battered, bandages around their heads sitting grim-faced around the table at Potsdam. Seeing them like this suddenly made Raivis feel so old and left behind.
"Latvia."
"Yes, sir!" Raivis swiveled on his heel to see Ivan opening the trunk of the car.
"Take my suitcase."
"Yes, sir."
Raivis heaved the giant suitcase out of the trunk, pulling it behind him along with a briefcase slung around his neck, and his own much smaller suitcase which rattled due to a broken wheel.
"Follow me. Don't get distracted."
"Yes, sir!"
And then Russia was off, and Raivis almost had to run to keep up with the nation's impossibly long strides, suitcases bumping and clattering behind him.
The golden rotating doors to the hotel swung open, and Raivis found himself lost in a maze of chatting nations and dignitaries of all cultures and languages. The floor was a swirling rose marble, and crystal chandeliers threw golden lights across the room.
He blinked, reminding himself to find Russia's hulking figure in the crowd, and raced after. Weaving past men and women in suits and pencil skirts, Raivis picked up snippets of conversations:
"Oh god, he's here now."
"Is that a little kid following him?"
"So they've resorted to child slavery? Why am I not surprised."
Raivis was too distracted to register if that had been German or Swedish or English, or some combination of all three. He spotted Russia's head over a stream of people exiting the elevator, and managed to catch up just as Russia stepped inside. He grunted as he dragged the two suitcases over the metal door – what did Russia have in this suitcase anyway? – and the doors slid shut for a moment of brief silence.
Raivis leaned his weight on the suitcase handle, trying to suppress his heavy breathing. He straitened at the crackled music playing through the speaker.
"That's Louis Armstrong."
"What?"
Raivis pointed to the ceiling of the elevator. "That music. It's Louis Armstrong."
"I knew that," Russia said, but Raivis had a feeling he didn't.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Raivis followed Russia through the hallways, the suitcases now quiet on the thick carpeted floor. Russia stopped at his designated room and took two keys from his pocket.
"My room is here, yours is four doors down."
Raivis felt relief; he had been afraid he and Russia would share a room. Sitting next to his master in the confines of the airplane had been stressful enough. But something else seemed odd.
"Why aren't our rooms next to each other?"
"Here is your key," Russia said, ignoring the question. "Don't lose it and keep it with you at all times. Also I want you to practice picking the lock on your hotel door."
Raivis took a breath to ask why, but Russia continued,
"Dinner is being served downstairs in an hour. Clean up and be at the elevator in 45 minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Then Russia took his suitcase from Raivis, unlocked his door, and left Raivis alone in the hallway.
Raivis had the strange feeling that Russia was leaving him to sink or swim. There were no agents or dignitaries to make sure he arrived on time, or that he didn't sneak around the hotel building, or even leave to wander the streets of London, as much as his heart was begging him to. This was a test, and Raivis was not going to screw it up.
The loose wheel on his suitcase squeaked as Raivis walked down the hall, muttering the room numbers under his breath.
My own hotel room.
It was something Raivis hadn't had access to since independence.
As he fumbled with the key, he heard voices echo from down the hall:
"But brother, he was just saying hello!"
"He's flirtatious and dangerous and I do not want you speaking to him, do you understand!?"
"You always act like this at World Meetings!"
German.
Raivis instantly thought of Germany, and he was filled with an urgency to see Prussia's little brother in-person and tell him that Gilbert was okay.
Ah shit… I can't… I'm not allowed to talk to anyone.
But as the argument grew louder and clearer, Raivis realized the two voices weren't deep enough to be Germany. He looked up to see two blond-headed people turn the corner. One was a shorter man in a green uniform, followed by a teenage girl with the same shoulder-length haircut.
"Because world meetings are full of dangerous people who want to take advantage of you!" the man in uniform hissed.
"By asking me if I want to try scones at a cafe later?" the young girl asked skeptically, hands on her hips.
Raivis dropped the key.
He turned to the door, eyes wide and the hammering of his heart putting his earlier nervousness to shame. He thought he was going to faint.
"Oh, hello!"
Raivis jolted upright. Shit!
"Are you here for the meeting, too?" The girl had switched to a lovely, accented English.
Don't talk to them, don't talk to them!
Raivis bent down, grabbed the key, opened his hotel room door and slammed it shut, pressing his back to it and sliding down to the floor.
He sat there a moment in the darkness, panting.
"I… I didn't realize she would be here!" he whispered to himself in Latvian.
Spies are everywhere; don't ever assume your room isn't bugged.
They will see you as a direct line of leverage and national secrets to use against me, Lithuania, Estonia, and every single one of your hardworking citizens.
Kids mean leverage. If you can find his family, you can get him to do almost anything.
Raivis buried his head in his hands. He had a job to do. He couldn't afford his huge crush on Liechtenstein to ruin his one chance at actually having responsibilities.
And he couldn't talk about it – not to himself, not in this hotel room, not even in Latvian - for his safety, and hers.
Raivis let out a groan and raked his hands through the curls in his hair.
This job really was going to be a lot harder than he thought.
Thanks everyone for reading my stories! Writing short stories is a lot of fun and a lot less pressure than the long ones hahaha ;) If you liked them, or if you like my style of writing, leave a comment so I know what to keep doing! I might post more stories here in the future, but for now this one is complete.