It was not until the three were sitting in the back of taxicab speeding away from the apartment complex that Bashir noticed that Garak was bleeding from the corner of his mouth
"How did that happen?" Bashir pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and applied pressure to the wound while Garak tried to move out of his reach. Ineffectively as it were, since the three were crammed into the backseat together with Bashir in the middle.
"Part of the bomb's casing must have hit him after it detonated. My apologies, but we didn't have a choice." Komananov explained.
"Oh, so this was your idea?" Garak asked, still trying to dodge any and all medical attention from Bashir.
"But Garak, don't you understand?" Bashir cut in, having managed to pin Garak down and pressed the handkerchief to his mouth. "The safeties that I had built into the program have deactivated, you could have been seriously hurt."
"My God, so much over fuss over a little blood, he'll live." Komananov sighed in exasperation. Bashir, at last, was satisfied that Garak's wound was minor and released him.
"What are we going to do? We can't exit the story because the others might die, but if we try to carry out the mission, we'll probably die." Bashir agonized over the possible outcomes.
"Don't forget that in the event we do die, the program will end, and the officers' patterns could be automatically purged," Garak commented on the side.
"Somehow, that's not making me feel better." Bashir pouted as he stuffed the bloody handkerchief back into his pocket."
"Oh, it wasn't meant to. Tell me, doctor, does intelligence work still seem like a recreational fantasy to you?" Garak snapped back. Komananov and Bashir groaned in unison.
"This is getting us nowhere. We still have to locate Dr. Bare," Komananov managed to get the other two back in line. "To do that, we're going to infiltrate the syndicate itself. Now Soviet Intelligence has discovered that the leader of the organization, Dr. Hippocrates Noah, has only captured scientists with whom he had arranged meetings in a Paris nightclub. That's where we should start."
"And how exactly are you planning on contacting this "Dr. Noah" without getting us killed in the process, hmm?" Garak rubbed his wound inadvisably.
"Stop it, you're just going to reopen that cut. Anyway, the plan is to infiltrate the club where Dr. Noah likely has a contact." Bashir
"But Julian, how will you convince them to let you see him once you get there?" Komananov's voice had taken on a gentler tone.
"He's looking for scientists, right? I'll tell his people that I am a geologist interested in their project and play it by ear from there."
Qadir had reentered the apartment when she heard the explosion from the floor below. The agent had raced back to find the entranceway ajar and the Falcon on the floor with his group, all of them apparently injured. There were pieces of shrapnel and ash scattered across the carpet among them, probably from a low-level explosive. Qadir grabbed Falcon by the hair and pulled him up off the ground.
"Where are they?" the operative growled in his face.
"I don't know, they got away" Falcon responded sheepishly, already dreading the consequences of his misstep.
"How?" Qadir shouted, "Never mind, we need to locate them immediately. You and your men fan out and search the area. I will contact headquarters and inform them that Agent Bashir could be fleeing the city at this very moment. Now get out of my sight you miserable sons of whores!" Her order was all it took for the four to get off their sorry asses and go back to work.
"Did I not say that those idiots were sloppy?" Qadir muttered to herself as she shut the door behind the others, imagining the look on Dr. Noah's face if he had heard her.
"I suppose if you want something done right you've got to do it yourself."
When Bashir, Garak, and Komananov exited the vehicle, they found themselves in front of a busy nightclub in downtown Paris. Komananov had spontaneously changed costume and was now in pink formal gown typical of the historical setting.
"We're here again? Are we seriously supposed to believe that our characters made it all the way to Paris without being apprehended by their adversaries?" Garak seemed almost personally offended by the implausibility of the program.
"This is not the time to criticize the plot, Garak. Let's go." Bashir led them to the doorway of the club, completely bypassing the other patrons who were patiently waiting in line. He flashed an ID at the bouncer, "I believe I'm on the list, and these two are with me." He gestured at Komananov and Garak. Komananov wrapped her arm around Bashir's and strutted into the building alongside him. Garak stormed after them, biting his tongue to keep himself from starting an argument over just how gullible the security would have to be to not spot Bashir's false credentials.
As soon as they entered the establishment, Garak's eyes were once again affronted by a most offensive disarray of colors and patterns. In his mind, anyone who would combine white and beryl wallpaper with yellow trim frankly deserved to go out of business. He did not even know where to begin with the fashion disaster that was the patrons.
"Primitives," Garak muttered to himself before catching up to Bashir.
"So…Agent Bashir, how exactly are you going to locate the contact?"
"Our best option would be to go through the proprietor, if the syndicate is operating out of his business then he's almost certainly involved." Komananov cut in.
"Excellent idea. Anastasia, we'll find the owner. Garak, keep a lookout in case something goes wrong. Come on, let's try the private room first." Bashir and Komananov strutted off across the casino floor toward a curtained-off suite on the opposite side.
Garak strolled around the edge of the room, taking in the club scene that was only slightly more sophisticated than Quark's bar. He adjusted the collar of his undershirt and pretended to be interested in a game of roulette at a table in front of him. Meanwhile, the seasoned spy let no details escape him. So far, there were no outwardly suspicious characters, meaning that one of two options was true: either there was nothing in the nightclub that the syndicate felt was worth guarding, or, their agents were so well adapted to the environment that not even he could pick them out of a crowd.
A waiter walked around the roulette table, distributing glasses of champagne. Garak accepted one and resumed his watch. He took a sip of the nearly tasteless replicated drink and took stock of the business's security measures. As to be expected, there were several security guards stationed around the room, from the way they moved Garak surmised that each must have been assigned to a specific quadrant of the room which they never left while on duty. There were unlikely to be any sophisticated surveillance devices based on the archaic technology of the time period, but it was always best to assume they were there and act accordingly.
The crowd around the roulette table cheered in unison as the night's big winner jumped out of his chair in delight. Boring. Typical. Garak thought to himself that perhaps a close analysis was unnecessary as the characters in this holoprogram were completely lacking in subtlety. The villains of the story so far were flagrant and dramatic. They dressed differently, walked differently, even spoke differently than their background counterparts. They were mere caricatures of spies.
Garak strolled leisurely around a blackjack table, listening in on the conversation as an experienced fly on the wall. At first, there did not appear to be much worth listening to. There were some brief remarks on the weather, a character who appeared to a wealthy entrepreneur bragged about the success of his recent investments, and there was some talk about up and coming jazz musicians. Honestly, Garak could think of at least half a dozen other programs that were more intellectually stimulating than this. If Dr. Bashir was trying to keep anything about his little excursions in the holosuite a secret, then it must have been his own apparent lack of good taste.
One of the gentlemen across the aisle at another table asked his friend for the time, which was 11:25 in the evening.
"Show starts in five minutes mon ami, I'd hate to miss it." The first stated to his companion seated beside him.
"And what is tonight's entertainment exactly?" The other young man asked, inspecting the cards in his hand.
"Why, none other than La Vipère D'Arabie herself, one of the most celebrated performers in all of Paris." The dealer entered the conversation as he distributed poker chips. "Believe me, it is something to see."
"But you haven't told us what the show is?" The cardholder pointed out. The dealer, an older man with wise, knowing eyes winked at him.
"See for yourself, you can thank me later."
The two patrons looked at one another and shrugged. "Well, I suppose it won't hurt to relax a bit while we're here." The less enthusiastic of the pair joked. The other clapped him on the back.
"Let's get down there then so we'll have a good view." The two rose from their seats and made their way across the room.
Garak glanced around quickly, taking stock of his surroundings again. Everything seemed to be unchanged, and unworthy of note. Besides, he considered, it may prove worthwhile to do some more poking around. He followed the two poker players out of the main hall at a discrete distance.
There was a doorway on the opposite side of the room leading into a corridor. There was a line of people filing into another room further down the hall, and Garak quietly disappeared into the crowd. Once he had entered, it became clear that this room was a theatre of some sort, with the performance area roped off from the audience and protective padding rolled out on the floor. Garak crept along the sidelines and took his place in the shadows among a group of older patrons. He was unable to stifle his curiosity at this point. If this had been Cardassia, he would have expected the show to entail activities such as poetry reading, sparring, and heated debate. However, he seriously doubted that this crowd would be interested in such pursuits.
Garak's mind wandered back to Dr. Bashir for a moment, and he wondered what progress his friend was making. His focus was then redirected when the theatre lights dimmed, and a small group of men entered the makeshift stage carrying what appeared to be drums and an assortment of other musical instruments which Garak could not name. The five musicians kneeled in one corner and set up the tools of their trade.
"A concert, perhaps?" Garak wondered aloud, though he could not fathom why such a small group of performers would need so much space. He could not see them very well in the dim light of the theatre, but they appeared to be dressed identically in white robes and their heads and faces covered by black scarves. One of the musicians, a drummer, began to tap out a slow, swinging rhythm. A few measures later, an instrument that sounded akin to a flute joined in along with the melodic ringing of chords behind it.
Garak could not tell what genre of music they were supposed to be playing, he guessed it was some sort of Terran folk or classical, but the scale and rhythm seemed a bit too exotic for that. He could admit that it was rather lovely, but it was hardly as invigorating as the dealer at the poker table had made it out to be. Garak supposed he should have been getting back to the main hall as it was too dark to spy on the crowd effectively anyway, but just as he was turning to go, the audience began to applaud. The Cardassian looked back toward the stage and saw a shadowy figure enter.
It had to be her, the performer Garak had overheard talk of. She appeared to float across the stage as she made her way to the center of the room. The music changed and decreased in tempo; the drumming became more prominent. The figure curtsied to the audience, eliciting more applause. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, though Garak could not quite put his finger on what. Her arms snaked upward, and her hips swayed to the drumbeat. A dancer. Now that seemed appropriate for such a disorderly crowd. Garak moved back into the darkness at the edge of the room to observe. The tailor in him had to admire her costume, it was a two-piece vermillion ensemble with black and gold swirls across the outer layers of the garment, topped off with a red and gold veil. When the dancer moved, the material flowed with her. It was like watching wildfire dance.
Garak indulged his interest a moment longer. After all, this was not something one would see on any given day. He shuddered at that thought of being discovered in a holosuite watching this patently indecent display by one of his fellow Cardassians. His people viewed dancing as an animalistic ritual of foreigners rather than an art form.
After watching the performer snake her way across the stage, Garak decided there really was nothing there to learn, and that the performance must have been a side-detail embedded in the program. He turned to make his exit and almost immediately ran into one of the security guards.
"My apologies, I was just heading out." Garak pointed toward the door, but the guard did not react. As a test, Garak tried to walk around the guard, only to be shoved backward. He searched the room for any other possibility of a graceful exit. There was one other doorway, but there were no guards in front of it at all, meaning they were not expecting anyone to go in or out of it. Effectively, Garak was caught in a trap. The patron standing beside him looked Garak in the eyes and grinned, showing the many gaps in his crumbling teeth. The man pulled back the edge of his jacket to reveal the pistol grip concealed by his baggy pockets. Message received.
Garak cursed himself for being so careless. They had been watching him since the moment they arrived. That was why Bashir and his companions had gotten past the bouncer so easily. The syndicate had planned on the three of them entering the nightclub voluntarily, and now Garak was separated from the others, in a dark room probably crawling with syndicate members, and in a holoprogram with no standard safety measures.
But it couldn't get much worse than that, right?
The semi-toothless man pulled the pistol out of his pocket and put the muzzle against Garak's lower back.
"Slowly now, walk to the front. Don't try to run, I promise you wouldn't get far."
"Don't mind me," Garak whispered back to him through the corner of his mouth, his eyes and face were still pointed straight ahead, "I won't give you any trouble. Besides, the view from beside the stage is probably far superior to here." After making a respectful obeisance, Garak wove his way through the audience, ignoring the sheer claustrophobia of the crowd at the edge of the stage as best he could.
The music stopped.
It did not end per se, but it stopped as if someone had hit the pause button on the musicians. Suddenly everyone was looking at him and holding their breath. That was when Garak noticed the dancer standing still in the center of what now felt more like an arena than a stage. One delicate arm was outstretched and pointed at him. They were less than twenty feet apart, and in the dim lighting, Garak thought he saw her flash a wicked grin. When he met the dancer's eyes, she turned a gloved hand over and wiggled a finger at him to come hither.
It was her again. For the love of Cardassia, couldn't it have been anyone else?
Garak obeyed and approached, stepping over the rope barrier that encircled the stage. He could still feel the wide-eyed stares of the audience burning into his back. All things considered though he was probably safe for the moment. It was probably considered inappropriate in human culture for a performer to execute her adversary in front of her customers.
"Come closer," The woman purred as she leaned back into her hip, "It's Garak, isn't it?"
"Yes Madam Qadir, we met last night." Garak stopped in front of her.
"So we have." Qadir laughed before flicking her wrist at the musicians who began to play another romantic ballad. Her laughed sounded so much like his dear Akkad's that he could almost believe it was really her. It was not the doctor, however, and he could not forget it for a second. He would have to have had a death wish to show a foe the affection he saved for his lover.
"Dance with me," Qadir commanded as she took hold of his hands. Her body began to rock in time with the music again as she pulled Garak along with her. He, more or less, just stepped back and forth, while she put on the show.
"So, Vipère, why don't you tell me where the others are?" Garak whispered into her ear as she did a cambre over his shoulder.
"Oh, never mind them, they are sleeping like babies, I assure you," Qadir whispered back. Garak stiffened in alarm, causing Qadir to almost lose her balance as she turned. The dancer pouted in distaste.
"So how did you do it, my dear? Did you kill the owners so you could take over this establishment and run your little side business out of it?" Garak felt a rush of air hit his skin as Qadir's skirts spun with her.
"Ooh, you're warm. Though I suppose if that were true it would make a far more
interesting story." Qadir put a hand a Garak's upper arm and drew one leg up the side of her body and out into the air as she balanced on relevé.
"You didn't take it, then I suppose this was always your base of operations. The syndicate started the business as a front." Garak guessed.
"Please, let's give credit where it's due." The dancer ran the back of her hand down the side of his face.
"You own this place?" On some level, Garak felt genuinely impressed. "Then why risk your life working with the syndicate? Surely your profits are enough to live on comfortably."
"That's true, money is no issue in this line of work, but I wouldn't have my business if not for my day job. How else could a dancer possibly earn enough money to purchase such a valuable property?"
"Ah, I see, so your loyalty was bought." Garak taunted. Qadir dug her fingers into his arm.
"Of course, I could not expect you to understand. But I came from nothing. When I was alone in an orphanage in Riyadh no one cared who I was, but now look at how the tables have turned. I will live a life worth remembering, instead of dying miserable in my sleep having accomplished nothing in all of my years." The musicians had stopped playing save for the two drummers who sent echoes all throughout the nightclub.
"Now listen closely because I'm only going to say it once. When the music stops, you will bow with me and then you will go back to where you were standing, after a few minutes, security will escort you out of the room. Later, we will have words." The music stopped and the audience cheered as Qadir and Garak.
"And just where should I expect to find you?" Garak murmured through a false smile.
"You will know. When it is time, you will now."
