Chapter 13: The Botanist, the Interrogator, and the Palm Reader
Cambridge, Massachusetts
March 2000
This is not exactly what she had in mind when Baron said he'd be whisking her away for a vacation. A couple weeks back, she offhandedly mentioned over the phone the FSB was giving her holiday time, and Baron began planning. He never really painted her a picture of white, sandy beaches and fruity umbrella drink, but that's what she had in mind. Warm weather and a bungalow with a private view of the ocean where they could have sex on the beach without someone getting an eyeful.
He'd buy her things. He loved doing that. Ridiculous, nonsensical things like evening gowns and diamonds (to make up for the jewelry she's been forced to wear), things she couldn't really wear to work. Every once in a while, an alias required her to dress formal for a gala, but she usually was part of the catering or housekeeping staff. No one paid attention to the help, but people were bound to notice a five foot six brunette with wide eyes and long lashes dressed in a lavender Ralph Lauren gown speaking Cantonese to one gentleman and then Bengali to another.
Massachusetts in March is definitely not what Hermione had in mind for a vacation. There's still snow patches on the ground, and almost everyone in the area is hacking or sneezing and looking completely miserable as they tote their backpacks or swivel their bicycles towards the campus of MIT.
When Baron met her at the airport in Berlin, the first words out of his mouth had been, "Fancy a trip to the States?"
She'd been thinking maybe, hopefully Hawaii. Bloody hell, Florida, even. Fucking California. Not…not this.
It's not that she doesn't find Maya Hansen unattractive. Hermione has come to terms with herself. She likes women and men, but she's pickier about the former. Maya isn't her type, and Hermione knows she's not hers. Still, they have a common lifestyle in that they mostly go for men but sometimes want women. Tonight at the bar, from the way Maya had been chatting and playing coy with the man next to her, Hermione knew she was going to have to work a little bit harder. She adjusted her black-rimmed glasses and got to work.
A couple of hours later, and here Hermione is now. At Maya's flat. She's got potted, cased-off plants all over the place, and Maya had tipsily warned to be careful around them. But that's just all background now as she squirms and writhes under Maya. Baron is in her ear, listening on the earpiece, and she's trying to tune out his perverse words of encouragement. He loves doing this, and she hates it. And sometimes, she just hates him.
He manacled her. He enslaved her. And now he listens and gets off as she delves mouth and tongue first into her assignment. Hermione thinks she might as well be a whore, and missions like these were exactly what she never wanted. They were supposed to be beneath her.
She thinks of the Winter Soldier, and how she looked down on him when she was eleven years old. She thought of him as a dog. A trained dog and how she feared becoming that but had been so sure it wouldn't even be a possibility. She dwells on the last time she saw him, how he begged to die. He begged her to kill him, so he wouldn't have to anymore.
Hermione doesn't have to kill Maya Hansen, but the woman is one of few who's escaped HYDRA's list.
For now.
Hermione's loyalty is still to HYDRA, but with each covert assignment she's tossed under theFSB's nose, the more difficult it is for her to maintain her conviction. Are these people really a threat to the world, to humanity? Or are they just a threat to HYDRA's council?
There's stirring going on in the Middle East. More than usual. Natalia often brings it up, having had been undercover in Saudi Arabia for almost a year.
"Something's coming," she'd say. "I wish I was able to find out what."
HYDRA's blatantly ignoring the shift in the wind. Maybe because they're being persuaded to. They have friends with deep pockets over in that part of the world.
Maya finally tires and curls on her side to fall asleep. Hermione presses up behind her, caressing her arm until her breath evens out. She then carefully gets out of the bed and puts on her clothes and pads out of the room. Maya had discarded her computer bag in the sitting room, the woman carrying it with her wherever she went. She unzips the bag and pulls out the laptop, opening and booting it up. She shoves the disk Baron gave her into the drive and closes it and copies everything from the hard drives to the disk.
Hermione then pulls out all Maya's notebooks from the bag and puts on her glasses, hitting the left corner of her frame with each turn of the page. In a small pocketbook with equations and formulas, Hermione finds one on a card authored from a "you know who I am."
Putting everything away just as she found it, Hermione quietly leaves the flat and doesn't bother going back to the hotel where Baron is waiting for her. She dumps the ear piece and hails a cab to the airport, leaving for Moscow on the earliest flight. The whole flight home, she scowls out the window, at her bracelet, and at the perverted fourteen year old boy next to her.
Baron comes for her and fast. He needs the disk and specs and is so angry at her for disregarding protocol, he doesn't even bother asking why she went AWOL. He suspends her from HYDRA-related missions for the foreseeable future and threatens to extract her from the FSB. Days go by until he finally calls her and asks why.
"I don't want to wear the bracelet anymore," she tells him.
"That is no reason for your behavior, Milas." He's then quiet for a moment. "I had to discuss your incident with the council. They fear you may have gone native and given the information to Russia."
"I haven't and I didn't," she says evenly.
"Someone is going to stop by to question you. I ask you don't give him a hard time. Don't give him any reason to think you're disloyal to HYDRA. The fallout could be more terrifying than you imagine."
Hermione glares at her door after he leaves and then her calendar. She's only got three days left until she's got to get back to work. What an utterly fantastic holiday she's having, yeah? She wants to call up Natalia, but she's out somewhere in France coaxing all kinds of juicy tidbits from some poor sod.
Later that evening, a polished, bald-head man in his late twenties comes to her door. She gawks at his crisp, freshly pressed suit and then yanks him inside by his tie. He lets out an undignified gargle and falls to his knees when she lets him go. He must think she's being hostile because his fingers fly to his taser gun which she kicks out of his hand with ease.
"Stand down," he orders in English from the floor, his hands up in surrender. Ugh! American.
"You stand down," she counters. "Are you crazy coming here looking like that? You know Russian operatives are often monitored?"
"I'm here on business, Agent Abegglen," he says. As if that's an excuse. He gets to his feet and shakes his designer briefcase at her pointedly.
"You look like government and not this one. Didn't you get, like, a memo—"
"I'm a Level 3, so I will wear—"
"If the FSB blows down my door, I'm going tell them you're an American spy sent to torture and kill me for information when I thought you were just some errand boy delivering flowers." Hermione gestures to the fresh bouquet of pink roses on her coffee table Baron sent as an apology for being so harsh with her, not as her supervising officer, but as her lover.
The man gets to his feet and readjusts his tie and then his skewed glasses. He lifts his chin at her defiantly as if to say he doesn't answer to her. She's just some expendable toy soldier. But as for him, he delivers Alexander Pierce's coffee and is a caddy to uppity-up politicians on the golf course.
The hand not carrying the briefcase clenches, and he introduces himself. "Agent Jasper Sitwell. We should get started."
They sit at her humble dinner table in the kitchen, and he unlocks his briefcase. He pulls out a monitor and meticulously wrapped cords. He unravels them and hooks the sensors to her temples, to her pulse, and then above her breastbone. He fires up the monitor, and she takes a deep breath. She's got this. Her faith dwindles in HYDRA, but she's still here. At the end of the day, she owes them so much. She tells herself she'd be straight-jacketed and locked in a padded room if it hadn't been for them.
"State your full name and date of birth," says Agent Sitwell.
"Milas Edda Abegglen. Born November 2, 1979.
Agent Sitwell looks at the monitor and then back at her. "Is that your real name and date of birth?"
"Specify."
Contempt begins to blossom in his eyes. "Has Milas Edda Abegglen always been your name."
"No, sir."
"Explain."
"I was assigned the name Milas Edda Abegglen at age eleven. Before then, I was 17."
"I assume you mean the number. And before then?"
Hermione is quiet for a moment and then replies, "I was born Hermione Jean Granger."
Agent Sitwell doesn't look surprised and must be somewhat familiar with her file. He writes a few notes in his file and then inquires, "Where were you born?"
"In Surrey, England."
"Which hospital."
"I don't remember," she lies.
"Date?"
"September 19th in 1979."
"Do you remember your parents' names?"
"No."
Sitwell glances at the monitor and then at her. "Are you sure about that?"
He's trying to bate her, but he's not aware she can pass these suckers like no one's business, thanks to the Red Room. It's a learned skill she never bothered telling Baron or anyone else about. There are things she needs to keep to herself to hold some sort semblance of control over her life.
"I'm sure," she lies.
"Have you ever gone looking for them?"
"No."
"Do you remember your maternal and or paternal grandparents at all?"
The question throws her, but she quickly schools herself. "I remember my maternal grandmother a little."
"Do you remember her name?"
"No," she lies.
He rests his gaze on the monitor, his pen clicking his hand. "Do you remember what primary school you went to?"
"No."
"Do you remember any of the friends you had?"
"No."
"Did you have any pets?"
"There might've been a cat."
"Do you remember the cat's name?"
"No."
"You're on deserted island. There's a box that washes up on shore. What's in it?"
Hermione mulls over the question, finding it out of sort with the others. Clearly, it's a psychoanalysis question.
"A book."
"Which book?"
"Lord of the Flies. Or maybe Snow White and Seven Dwarves."
Sitwell stares at her for a moment and then mutters a long, "Right." He flips a page of the file and exhales noisily. He scans whatever's on the page, brows pinched together in mild confusion. "Another question and then will get to the real stuff. Before you left Surrey, do you recall anyone ever visiting to your home to discuss your education with your parents."
"No," Hermione says slowly, frowning. "Why?"
"I ask the questions, Agent Abegglen." He adds to his notes and then clicks his pen. "Now on to the more important questions. Are you in a relationship?"
"Specify."
"A romantic relationship?"
She curses mentally. She has to say yes. Baron will read her results and know she can pass a lie detector test if she says no. She can't let him know. She can't let any of them know. This is her one tangible thing of freedom. She has to tell the truth.
"Yes."
"Explain."
Hermione solemnly dips her chin. "I'm in a relationship with my supervising officer."
"FSB or HYDRA?"
"HYDRA. I don't have an assigned S.O. in FSB."
Sitwell writes fast, only pausing to push his glasses up his nose. "Baron Von Strucker is your supervising officer, correct?"
"Yes."
He looks up at her from over his file. "He's married. Did you know that?"
"I will answer official and professional questions only which are necessary, sir."
There are a thousand questions wanting to erupt from his mouth, and she can see them all, but none of them classify as being on the record. His form had not prepared him for her to say yes to being in a romantic relationship and to name her S.O. as being the one she's involved with. Eventually, though, he nods and continues reading from his form.
"How long have you been an official operative of Russia?"
"For almost three years."
"Has your loyalty to them ever been questioned?"
"No."
"Not once?"
"No."
"They have no reason to believe you're a double agent?"
"No."
"Has your associate Natalia Romanova ever expressed doubt in your loyalty?"
Hermione shakes her head. "No."
"Does she truly believe you're Milas Abegglen? That you were brought to the Red Room because of an uncle's political connections?"
"Yes."
"Has she ever asked to meet your uncle?"
"No."
"If she ever did, how would you respond?"
"She won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because my uncle died of brain cancer months after I graduated from the Red Room." Hermione smiles blandly at Sitwell who arches an impressed eyebrow at her.
"HYDRA has expressed concern in your closeness with who the intelligence world is dubbing Black Widow. Have you ever had romantic or unprofessional relations with her?"
Hermione drums her fingers on the table. "Briefly."
Interest sparkles in the man's dark eyes, but he remains professional. He writes down a few notes and continues, "What caused it to end? Was she getting to close to discovering who you were?"
"Truthfully?"
"Obviously."
She sighs and the shirks one shoulder. "I was a phase. An experiment. She prefers men. They're easier to control and manipulate."
"So she said."
Hermione chuckles and shoots him a sly smirk. "It was a valid point."
Sitwell frowns at her, clicking his blasted pen. She imagines shoving the tip into his jugular.
"You disregarded protocol on his last mission, Agent. You were supposed to rendezvous with your S.O. at the hotel."
"I wasn't in the mood for rendezvousing." She shows him her bracelet, and she wonders if he even knows what it's true purpose is for. "And I am never off the radar."
"Did you show anyone in Russian intelligence or anyone else the pictures you took before Strucker came for them?"
"No."
"Would you ever consider betraying HYDRA by going native for the FSB?"
"No."
"Would you ever inform another intelligence-based organization of HYDRA's existence?"
"No."
"Do you plan on ever betraying HYDRA?"
Hermione doesn't skip a beat. "No." She looks Sitwell square in the eye, daring him to find the tiny seed of doubt planted in her chest.
"Good." Sitwell nods.
"Hail HYDRA," she says and for the first time, she feels completely empty saying it.
"Hail HYDRA," he replies. "We're done here. Remove the sensors. Your S.O. will be in touch with you, but don't plan on it being Strucker. I will leave nothing out of the report."
"I expect nothing less from a Level 3 agent."
Sitwell leaves, and she locks the door behind him before going to sit on her sofa. She stares at the pink roses for a while, thinking their her least favorite out of all the bouquets Baron has given her. She liked the purple orchids more he got her yesterday. Carefully, she removes her bracelet and sets it on the table, flexing and rotating her wrist. A strip of pale skin stands out against the rest of her hand. A rush of static floods her, and she closes her eyes, relishing the sensation.
When she opens them, she thinks the flowers should suffer the same fate as the orchids. But she's going to be creative about it. With a curl of her fingers, the plush, velvet petals shrivel and crumble. When they hit the glass of her coffee table, they explode into dust, and she guides them to her open window to let the cool breeze sweep the away. The black dead stems in the vase remain but soon, they break apart and fall into the water.
Killing the flowers is a simple, menial thing. Not even a fraction of what she can do. But it has to be enough for now, and already, she's had the bracelet off for too long. She'll be getting a call or another visit soon, so she latches on the strap and dumps the soiled water into the sink.
She keeps the vase. She always does and puts it with the others. In a cabinet in her bedroom.
The following morning, she goes walking around the city. Something she doesn't do too often. She buys a newspaper, a coffee, and a pastry and pretends to be like the rest of the people around her. There's a bookstore not far from the café, so she goes inside and meanders around, reading the spines. One of them intrigues her, and she pulls the book out, reading the back and then the first few pages.
Several minutes in, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Someone's watching her. She turns around and sees a woman, perhaps in her sixties standing stoically behind her. Her hair is a dark gray with a white stripe and her long, black coat is more like a cloak, thick and billowy. Her eyes…are strange, and her skin is deathly pale. Around her crooked arm is a woven basket filled with old-fashioned, hardback books.
"Is there something I can do for, ma'am?" asks Hermione.
One side of the woman's mouth quirks, and she steps forward. "It's funny you come into this book shop out of all the others in the city."
Warning bells rang inside Hermione's head, and she glances at the exit. "Why do you say that?"
The woman's strange, pupil-blown eyes move over Hermione, a smile of regret and wistfulness appearing on her face. She lifts a thin, long-nailed finger. "It's like you're searching, aren't you? You're starving for it? Even after everything, you still feel incomplete."
"Whatever narcotic you're obviously selling, I guarantee you, I don't want it." Hermione goes to leave.
"Wait," the woman rasps, showing her free hand. "Show me your hand, child."
Her legs stop moving, and she turns to face the woman, watching as her right hand acts on his its own accord. The women clucks her tongue, shaking her head. "The other one."
Her left hand lifts, and the woman's icy fingers skim over her palm, her nails dragging over the lines. Hermione blinks, feeling like she's swimming through a fog. What just happened? She was going to leave and then…
"My mother could read palms," says the woman. "A gift she passed to me. Not a very lucrative gift, mind you. Which is why I chose another profession. A teacher. Better job stability. There will always be children."
"You're a teacher," comments Hermione, wondering what kind of school would hire on a woman who looks the way she does.
"Would you like to know your future?" The woman's nails tickle the flesh aside her bracelet. "Such an ugly thing. You should crush the coward's heart who gave it to you."
Hermione furrows her brows and tells herself this woman knows nothing. She couldn't possibly. "I don't believe in that sort of thing."
"Then there is no harm, is there?" Nails travel back to her palm and scrape along the lines. "There is no harm in knowing…you will one day find what you're soul has been seeking. Or more accurately, it will find you. Be careful. It wears the face of an enemy." The woman shakes her head and exhales, the sound melancholy. "Dear child, the betrayals you still face..."
Laughing, Hermione tries to take back her hand, but the woman's grip is relentless, and she doesn't necessarily want to break the old quack's hand. It's not her fault she's madder than a hatter.
"Are you going to tell me the love of my life is around the corner, too?" Hermione snickers. She'll indulge this woman. Why not? It's the most interesting thing that's happened to her in a long time. She'll tell Natalia about it over vodka martinis and chocolate cake and have a good chuckle.
The woman shakes her head solemnly. "Your heart is as barren as your womb. Even when you manage to accept the one unlike the others, well…it's so long from now. You may change by then."
The woman closes her hand and pats the back of it. "It was good running into you. And disappointing, too. Very much so."
The encounter with the woman at the bookshop bothers her for days. Weeks, even. When she tells Natalia about it over vodka martinis and chocolate cake, they have a laugh, but Hermione still can't fully shake the woman from her thoughts until months pass.
To be Continued...
