***St. Petersburg, Russia May 3rd, 1973, 2:43 P.M.***
William stood amidst all the Russians in the crowded city-street. Under his breath, he cursed himself once again for setting up a meeting here, especially with the current standard between the United States and Russia. But regardless, he needed to talk to his contact. As the hustle and bustle went by in front of him, he pulled his jacket a little tighter around him. With no sign of his contact, William turned around and entered the pub he was standing outside of. Inside the building there was a great haze of cigarette smoke everywhere, and the general impression of a pool hall. Michael gazed around the room, and eventually found a small, empty table. He had just sat down when an attractive blonde waitress came over to him.
"Can I get you something?" She asked.
"Scotch and water, hold the scotch," he replied with a grin.
"Was that a joke?" she asked.
"Yes, it was. I'll just have a Sprite."
When she left, William kept his eyes on her. He noticed the way that her ass moved, and it simply enchanted her. Quickly, he checked his fingers. No ring. That was good. Just as his waitress was entering the kitchen, another one exited.
"Funny," he said to himself. In his head, he realized the blonde was wearing a blue apron. Everyone else was wearing a red one. While this would have normally triggered an instinct off in his brain, Vaughn accepted that Russia had different traditions than the United States.
In the kitchen, the blonde turned right.
"What are you doing here? You're not part of my staff!" yelled a chef as she walked by.
With a glare of acid, she pulled out her silenced pistol. She shot the chef in the shoulder, a place she carefully chose because it wouldn't kill him. In pain, he spun and fell over. Unfortunately, he was a chef. He landed on his own greasy grill. With a shrill cry, his face started to burn to a crisp. The hat he was wearing slipped off of his head, and it caught flame. Crying and yelling and cursing uncontrollably, the chef was pulled off the grill finally by two other cooks. His hat was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes, and his face was seriously burned.
"Never mess with a busy woman," the blonde said, with both hands supporting the handle of her pistol, held at arm's length from her. She turned around, and continued out the door.
"He just ordered a soda. Should I put the arsenic in it?" she said, ripping off her wig to reveal jet-black hair. After no response, she looked around. Her superior was nowhere to be found. Not sitting in his car in the back parking lot. He wasn't in any bush. And then Irina remembered Khasinou's favorite past time: smoking. She looked up, and there on a small ledge above the doorway she was standing in, was Khasinou, lying on his side and smoking a cigar. Deliberately, he shook a few cinders out of the edge onto his minion. Then he stood up, looked down, and jumped off.
"No. Not yet. We need him for now; he's accomplished what I've been searching for the last ten years: he won't escape my grasp." In his nervousness, he took back up his cigar, and slowly exhaled the smoke.
Exasperated, Irina started to leave, when he said, "That doesn't mean you can't have some fun, of course," he said, pulling out a flask from his jacket. He tossed it to her, and she unscrewed the lid and took a whiff.
"That much vodka could kill him!" she said, almost a little worried.
"No, it won't. Make sure there's enough of his soda to last him. And he's a heavy drinker, I've watched him." With that, Khasinou turned from the doorway to look out into the moon. "We're so close to what Rambaldi knew. I think we can afford to get him drunk."
After a few minutes of waiting and adjusting his eyes to the dimmed lighting of the pub, his waitress returned with a freakishly large mug of soda.
"Here's your 64 ounces of Sprite," she said with a knowing smile.
"Thanks," he replied. "Come here for a second," he said, beckoning her to bend down. When their faces were close enough, he looked up and kissed her long and hard. When they broke, Irina couldn't breathe.
"I hope that thing stays caught in your throat for a good two minutes. Tell your superior that I'm not gonna be caught drunk in our meeting!" he said, and he kicked her gut.
Desperate, Irina kicked around on the ground. She gasped and gasped, but to no avail. With little breath left, she pressed a button on her walkie-talkie, and Khasinou came running out of the kitchen. He looked around, and he saw her on the ground. In a panic, he put pressure on her stomach, trying to pump some air out of her lungs. It worked, and with a cough, a small screw came out of her throat.
Just as William was about to leave the pub, two big, muscular men stepped in front of him.
"Get out of my way, or I will make you get out of my way." William said with a voice of ice.
The two guards just laughed, and glared down at their opponent. Will slowly began to take in the reality of what his situation was. Each guard was probably armed, and they were at least six inches taller than he was. But he knew what to do. He stepped back and shuffled into a karate stance called "Meikohachi Dachi," or cat stance. It allowed his front leg to be ready to kick quickly if necessary, and his back leg was used for support. In this stance, he quickly delivered a well-placed kick to the first guard's gut. The bent over, and William took the opportunity to deliver a punch to the second guard's chin. Fazed, the second guard quickly readjusted himself, and protected his face with his hands. The bigger man gave a quick jab with his right, and then his left, which William dodged with difficulty, and then retaliated by grabbing the outstretched arm and threw him into a table. An unfortunate coupled had a 6 foot six, 250-pound man ruin their dinner. For the second that Will took to re-catch his breath, the other guard snuck up behind him, and knocked him out.
"Now let's see if he'll talk to us," Khasinou said, and then he spat on the body.