It was a little known fact that Yassen Gregorovich hated Moscow. He didn't particularly like his home country in general but, Moscow held the coveted position of Yassen's most hated city. He, in his years as an international contract killer, had only retuned twice to the city. Once to resolve his own personal issues, then to silence an informant.
His most recent trip to the city had been caused by Yassen's new freelance status. After five years under exclusive contract to the terrorist organization, Scorpia, Yassen was free. He was also out of work. It was a favored tactic of Scorpia, release their agents form the contract, then force them back into the organizations pocket when the naïve couldn't survive without their babysitter.
Yassen had exhausted every means he had before finally turning to the Russian mafia. He'd spent enough time as a slave, he could deal with his country if it meant he had a semblance of choice. As expected they reluctant and wary at first of the young man. It took multiple successes to secure his place in the Bratva.
Even then he was always aware of his precarious position. Yassen was an outsider, he would never give full loyalty to the Pakhan, it made him dangerous and only his particular skill set was saving him. Not that Yassen cared, he'd already established himself as a big fish on an international scale. Now, it was about staying on his feet till Scorpia came to him asking for help.
Unfortunately part of that waiting game was following orders, and those order led him to a particularly fancy hotel in Moscow. Fedya Bodrov's fate had been decided the moment his name had been hand in an unmarked envelope not a week ago. With a mere week to complete his objective he booked the earliest flight out of St Petersburg. A short flight – in comparison to international one Yassen was used to – later, the young killer found himself in Moscow for third time.
He still hated it.
He made quick work of finding a room to his satisfaction, not to public – not to decrepit, and about four block from the targets hotel. Next was a visit to the Architecture and Regulations office for the complete plans of both the hotel and surrounding building. It took a simple mention of a fake design course, and he was excused from questions. It was crucial to know your terrain, no matter where you where.
His favored method of choice was quickly ruled out, unless he wanted to chance it and fire on an open fire on a populated street, causing a panic and risking his escape. That meant he'd be working an inside job.
One Mr Zetov, after just landing his first job in the hospitality industry, found himself without an identity, or a pair of working lungs. Not that the hotel complained when a young man arrived promptly for his first day of work. It took Yassen two days to locate his Targets room and itinerary, then reassign himself to wait staff.
The Target arrived exactly according to schedule – never follow a schedule – meaning that exactly at one o'clock, a private lunch would be delivered to the presidential suite by 'Mr Zetov'. Then he would have – from his estimates of cleaning and the managers own schedule – around thirty minutes to get back down stairs and out of the building before the bodies was discovered. The elevator was currently too unreliable as it had not accepted the hotel issued card.
Underneath the hotel uniform he'd stowed away, his Beretta 92, an extra magazine, and one suppressor. All for one Target and whatever entourage he's brought. Though from the schedule and booking in seems he'd only brought along two men, one a trained bodyguard and the other a long time friend. Neither would provide a problem for Yassen.
When the clock showed quarter to one, he made his move. Approaching the current waiter, loading the cart with the Target's lunch.
"Need a hand?" Yassen asked.
"Just the last tray on the bench there," replied the waiter. Yassen spotted it and passed it to the young man. Casually striking conversation as he did so.
"Hey, have you been on break yet?"
"No, I've just got this to do then it's lunch for me."
"I've just finished my break, I can take it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, where is it going?"
"Presidential suite, top floor, got it?"
"No problem."
With that the waiter left the cart in Yassen's care. A short walk to service elevator, he swiped his - valid – access card and waited for it open, and waited, and waited. He contiued his attempt, it was moment like these that got assassins killed.
"You would think the valid one would work." He muttered as Yassen attempted one more time.
"Here, let me," said a cheerful voice. Her slender hand quickly swiping a card and finally activating the elevator. "Don't worry about the card, they're really slow about activating them. Sasha's took weeks to work, she just borrowed someone else's," the woman babbled, holding the doors open for him and the cart.
"Thanks," he replied, as was polite.
"Where are you going?"
"Presidential suite," he answered, short and sweet, lying would just cause confusion and alarm if she followed it up, which then led to discovery.
"No problem, that's top floor," she said. "I'm just heading to the sixth floor." He simply nodded.
From the corner of his eye he surveyed the woman, she was good looking, beautiful with strong features. Honey blonde hair coiled into tight bun, while a hotel uniform disguise an hour-glass figure. All in all, she had a glamourous quality to her that Yassen wouldn't deny he found attractive.
If only he could get to the understand the familiarity he felt, like he'd met the woman before, and just couldn't recall where. The last time in Moscow he had been on an errand run, he'd been there for two nights at most. There might have been a night involving some form of partner, whether that partner was male for female he neither knew nor cared, Scorpia trained that out of its agents.
"I haven't seen you in the kitchen before," he said, giving her an opening to talk and hopefully reveal some clue as to her familiarity.
"No, I work at the front desk, I'm just backstage today due to important guests."
She kept glancing at the floor number like she was counting the seconds till she could escape. Yassen made adjustments to how much time he had. He wanted to avoid the public elevator and the camera's in the main lobby, that left him the service elevator and the stairwell. The elevator was quicker, but it was obvious his card wasn't going to work.
"Your key doesn't work," she said, like it was some great realization. Instinctual reactions had been trained out of him, but no amount of training could stop that millisecond of reaction. Her words combined with the nervous glancing at numbers set him on edge, like he'd been made. Not that is mattered, it was better to succeed and be caught then fail and die.
"You can't wheel the cart down the stairs," she continued. "Here, take Sasha's card, I can take the stairs from six. Just make sure to put the card back in her cubby. We get charged if we lose anything."
Was she helping him? Did she know? Was this a trap? Yassen would have to wait and see.
"Thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful." As the doors closed he offered the woman a small smile and stole another appreciative glance at her.
The elevator began to rise again, between the seventh and eighth floor he pushed the emergency stop button. The service elevator, unlike the guest ones in the lobby, had no camera's allowing Yassen to assemble his pistol and suppressor. Then using a smuggled roll of duct tape he stuck it to the underside of the cart.
The elevator opened on the twelfth floor, occupied by an unassuming waiter. The Targets body patted the young man down checking for any hidden weapons, he found none. Next the food was checked each plate opened, inspected and then tasted, exactly and Yassen predicted. The bodyguard waved him through.
There were two other men in the suite, the Target and his friend, they were discussing by the dining table. Russian switched to German as he entered, not that it mattered Yassen was flaunt in five separate languages, including German, not that he revealed as such. The two were talking about some kind of shipment arriving in Sochi, it sounded valuable. If the Pahkan was nice, Yassen might even tell him.
Just as the bodyguard retuned to the dining room Yassen made his move. With practiced skill only Yassen could hone, his Beretta was drawn. The body guard went down first – eliminating the biggest threat – one clean shot between the eyes, although the rest of his brains decorated the far wall. Next, the collateral, aim, execute. The force of the bullet knocking the deadman of his feet, sending him stumbling against the wall.
The Target gawked like a gutted fish, only managing some form of action as the barrel of the pistol was aimed at him. His mouth moved but no words escaped, bang, he dropped like a lead weight and spasmed as the last vestiges of life deserted him.
He searches the bodies for a phone, upon finding one he takes three pictures, one of each body, and then sends them to a burner phone as proof of his success.
He now had to leave the building undetected. The hotel uniform was quickly shed, it was now coved in blood spatter, underneath he wore a plain black shirt. His gun was tucked away seamlessly in the folds and curves of his clothing.
He decides to trust the woman and the elevator – it's the fastest way out of the building – but his suspicions have not been silenced. It takes ninety six seconds for the elevator to reach the ground floor, another two minutes to find a cubby labeled Sasha and collect his jacket.
The bodies are discover twenty minutes later, Yassen is already back at his hotel, attempting to place the beautiful woman from the elevator. He has no memory of her, only possible theories, a plant meant to kill him. Maybe a spy trying to find her way into Scorpia, like John had. He didn't know why they were bother with him, he'd never fallen for any kind of honeypot.
He kept coming back to her, and the terrible thought that he should know the woman. Was she the last remnants of the Sharkovsky family. He, unfortunately, hadn't caught her name, thus leaving him scrabbling for answers and considering very stupid ideas. However, after much deliberation, he decided on an extremely stupid plan.
Re-dressing completely, adding a cap and sunglasses, he returned to the hotel. The staff had a separate car park, with tight corners that made them good places to hide, he tucked himself in the one that gave the best view of the parking space. Then he waited.
She emerged around nine at night, heading towards her car - an old red Skoda – and collected a bag before heading back in to the building. Yassen took his chance, slipping through the rows of parked cars he found hers and expertly picked the lock. Now open, he commenced a thorough search of the car, only finding, some lipstick, tissues, a couple of action figures and a couple photos of a cute kid skating about on a iced pond.
Not very incriminating but, it didn't ease the – still – growing suspicion of the woman. He knew this woman, somehow, and it seemed he was only going to get answers one way. Decided, he locked the car again from the inside, prepared his weapon and tucked himself away in the back seat of the tiny car.
It took about another hour for the woman to reappear in the lot, dressed in a tight black dress with a sweetheart neckline - accentuating an ample chest and full hips – striding confidently in stilettos. Yassen spied her across the parking lot, as she approached he calmly ducked down, and waited for her to start the car – it needed a tune up – and drive off.
It was as they passed through the backroads of Moscow, that he emerged from his hiding place, very slowly. At the same time checking the safety was on, because it was dumb to threaten some one in a moving vehicle with a weapon running hot. It clinked ever so slightly as he slid into the backseat, finally up right. He cleared his throat in attempt to catch her attention.
She ignored him.
"Pull over," he said, softly, trying to keep her calm.
She slammed the brakes, the car came to an abrupt stop. Yassen smacked the side of his face on the front seat, then back his head on the edge of the car roof. He swore quietly under his breath, while cradling his bruising skull.
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry, are you okay?" She asked. Her eyes staring at him with genuine worry. It must have been the head injury that caused his reply.
"I'm fine, it was an accident."
"I'm sorry, it's just you startled me." Damn right she should be startled, a strange man was in her car, with a gun. The correct action was to be startled. "Are you bleeding? I think I have some tissues."
"I'm fine," he reassured.
"This is why have seat-belts."
This woman was drunk. Or she was on some kind of drug.
"Why did I need to pull over?"
That was not the question she should have been asking, now Yassen was feeling confused. So confused, he replied with the truth.
"Because it's dangerous to threaten you while your driving." Yassen could have shot himself for that sentence alone, never mind the whole situation. Honestly, he meant it was dangerous for him.
"I'm sorry, threaten me?"
"Yes," he confirmed, for her benefit. "Who are you?"
"Karina Plisetskaya, I work the desk." A little clearer this time, like she was slowly coming to. "Look, I don't know what's happening!" Then she exploded. "All I can figure out is that you," she pointed at him, and stabbed at his chest with her finger, "are in my car and that is preventing me from going home and sleeping."
"Do you work for the SVR?" Yassen asked, just to be sure, because assumptions made an ass out of everyone. It seemed though that these where the words to wake her form her stupor, not a stranger in her car, or the weapon he was still holding, and if he though her little outburst from earlier was it. He was wrong.
"What? No!" She exclaimed. "My god! Maybe, once, and only once! I slept with you, many years ago."
Of course that's when it clicked. Yassen remembered her, a young woman who approached him at a hotel bar, and then the other intricacies of that night.
"I had sex with you?" He was still working it out in his head. She seemed to take offense.
"In one – one – night, not only did you kill my dreams of stardom but, you saddled me with a little ball of rage and, much as I love him, you and your fucking rod, or whatever dumb nickname you have for it – you ruined my life! I got to spend the next years – years – supporting my father and your son."
She laughed, slightly hysterical. "Oh and here's the fucking kicker: just when I'm finally getting my life back on track – a boyfriend, another shot at my career, a rude but improving five year old – you show up in my fucking car with a fucking gun! I just want to go home and put my little boy to bed, you fucker. I work fourteen hours to look after him! Get the hell out of my car, and get the hell out of my life!"
The door lock popping up was probably the loudest thing he had ever heard, and as he tried to process both the whole sentence and the word 'son', he found himself on city sidewalk. The old Skoda speeding of into the distance.
An hour later and he found himself lying on the pavement, still processing the entire fuck up that was his life, and sorting through everything she – Karina had said. He had a son, possibly, although the five years matched up with his last visit to Europe, and to answer his own question, yes he did have sex with her.
He was left with an unpleasant dilemma. His options where as followed: deny any connection and continue his life until he was either assassinated him self or failed in the field, make contact with possible child and forever put them and himself at due to their value as leverage, or attempt to go cold turkey entirely with the international circus find a good position in the local mafia. None where favorable options.
"The bus doesn't stop here young man," came a chiding voice, like they were telling a small child off. It belonged to a withered old woman, carrying a heavy load of shopping.
"I'm not waiting for a bus." He replied
"Then what are you doing?"
"Suffering from an existential crisis."
"What about?"
"I just found out I possibly have a son."
"Well the footpath isn't a good place to think about that sort of thing."
"Probably not." He made no attempt to get up.
"Are you catching the bus or not."
That was a good question, and another good one, where was he. Yassen knew cities and the layout in the ones he most frequented, but Moscow was always a gnat that he avoided whenever possible. Of course, that gnat came back to bite him in the ass.
"I need to get back to central Moscow."
Four bags laden with grocery's dropped precariously close to his head, the old woman already moving at quick pace towards a well lit stop.
"Come on then, I'll make tea when we get home."
And that was how Yassen Gregorovich, infamous assassin, current hitman for the St Petersburg Bratva, and not to forget graduate of Malagosto, found him self having tea with a nameless old lady in her rundown apartment. It wasn't even good tea.
"Aren't you weary of what a strange man that you found lying on the streets of Moscow might do, old woman all alone at home."
"If he's going to anything 'he' better be quick about it."
In the short ride from the bus stop to her small apartment, Yassen had learned that, she lived alone, her son was worthless, and the old woman was as devious as they came. Not only making him carry her groceries, but also picking up the bus fare. He was kind of impressed.
"So, you have a son. Are you going to man up and take care of him?" She asked, eyes cold as judged him from behind her cup.
"It's not a question of whether or not I want to be involved. It's a question of how much danger I would put him - and his mother - in."
"Then take precautions. Every boy needs a father."
"It's not that simple."
"Sure it is, you're just whining, cause it might be hard. Well guess what, good things are always hard! Take my Sergei, such a sweet baby, such an easy child, now he's a good for nothing brownnoser, married to loose woman." She seemed to continue her little raving under her breath.
"Are you finished?"
"Have you no sympathy for a betrayed woman, boy," she snapped.
"I'm sure you were no innocent in that situation."
"Spoilt little brat. Tarnished every memory of his father, down to his dying wish. 'take care your mama,' That's what he said, such a good husband, such a strong man. He piloted for the Airforce you know." The old woman smile so softly at the thought of her late husband. "Oh, the shame he would feel if he saw his state of his son."
"What did he pilot?"
"Helicopters, called them alligators or something similar."
"Crocodiles, They're called crocodiles."
"Ah, you're a military man?"
"No. I liked helicopters as a boy."
"A fine hobby." She smiled at him again, as if she'd had a great realization. "I know why you are here."
"You tricked me into carrying your bags."
"No, not that. Do you have a Grandmother, or even your own mother?"
"They were either, gunned down in the streets, burnt alive, or died a painful death due to a deadly virus. Maybe all three," Yassen bluntly replied. He tried to avoid all forms of his past, it was better buried. Especially now there was a descendant of the Estrov massacre.
His words did nothing to faze the woman.
"You have been without the guidance of a strong woman, we oldies have a natural talent for dealing with the bullshit of young men."
"Like you helped your son?" He replied. Yassen could deal with his current crisis in the dubious safety of his hotel room, he'd had enough of this madness.
"Like all the youth of today, running from your elders and your responsibilities. Look at you can't even stomach keeping an old woman company."
"It's the tea I can't stand," he said, setting the a practically untouched mug down before getting up to leave.
"Well excuse me for helping a useless wastrel, next time I see a young man lying on the pavement I'll walk right on by."
"It do him more good than your interference."
"I'm trying to help you," she said.
"I don't want help."
He slammed the door on his way out.
Yassen managed to locate a familiar street and work his way back from there. It was well past midnight when he reached his room. Before relaxing, Yassen ran through all his safety precautions. A hair across the entrance way, the flow of traffic below. All confirmed that there was - likely - nothing amiss, and that no one had entered his room.
His room now secure, the assassin retrieved his computer and connected to the internet. Then he googled the name she'd given him, Karina Plisetskaya. The results were instantaneous and varied, the first referencing to a inactive Russian pop idol. He started there.
It was her, dressed in black leotard and heavy leather jacket, her blonde hair lose as she sang into the microphone. She was younger, but not obviously, and her curves and bust where less pronounced. Actually, in another photo he found her with out the jacket, her arms an legs were spindly, each joint more visible than it should have been. However, she was undeniably the woman from the car.
He remembered her from the hotel, slightly tipsy and very interested. Yassen had never been found of casual sex, but he was in Moscow – he hated Moscow – he had completed his objective and was set to fly out early the next morning, and she approached him with the most ridiculous pick up line.
It ended in an enjoyable night with a woman he was likely never to see again, and who was far more interested in his abdominal muscles than the fact he had on him a least one hand gun and three knives on his person.
At the bottom of the page, je found what he was looking for, the end of her career. Not a month later she was dropped by her manager for... attitude problems, behavioral issues, and family matters. There was one personal quote from her stating that she would be taking hiatus, to raise her child - born on March 1st.
Fuck, the dates matched up.
The Plisetsky house was the furthest he'd been from Moscow, at least since he'd killed the Sharkovsky's, it was an old wooden cottage, complete with shutters and peeling paint. Very similar to the one he'd lived in as a boy. On one side a yellow car was parked innocently drive way, on the other stood a proud oak, accompanied by a old swing drifting quietly in the afternoon wind.
He almost turned around, almost made the best decision – ignore the possibility, protect the kid – but Yassen had never been good at selflessness. He couldn't stop himself once he made the first steps towards the home. The path old and broken, steps worn and creaky, and the door, the door shook on its very hinges as he knocked.
Loud footsteps echoed from inside the house, little mutterings escaped out the open window. The front door swung open to reveal a grizzled Russian man. He was aging, his beard and hair two toned with blond and a darker black, dressed in pressed pants and a heavy jumper. Even with barely an inch or two on Yassen, he still managed to look down on him.
"What do you want?" He asked. This was the last chance he had to back out, turn away now and he could ignore the hated city forever.
"I'm looking for Karina Plisetskaya."