⧗ CHAPTER THIRTY ⧗
Club Hurikkane rumbled beneath their feet.
Dmitri knew of the club years before he ever approached it. The place had been one of the most exclusive clubs of the last decade, and not a door Dmitri ever thought he would darken until now.
The line outside was long — men and women shifting anxiously in the cool summer night air. The five of them walked together, though their cover IDs would suggest they'd have no reason to know each other. It was agreed they'd only split up once inside, to ensure safety.
Comrade Goncharova remained in the hotel room, awaiting their return. Dmitri truly felt on his own now, looking up at the buildings that he'd once considered his home. But the streets were no longer old friends, but hollow strangers that threatened danger. It would be no better once inside the club.
It was a massive building, shiny black exterior with a giant neon sign trailing down both sides. One in Cyrillic, the other in Latin alphabet, with a unique spelling that only emphasized its apparent exoticism.
It was Rada's idea to skip the line; an instinct that served her well, as they slid up to the front doors, Rada leaned in to whisper in one bouncer's ear. The man was huge, an identical copy to the second bouncer standing nearby. They paused to share a look between sunglasses, gave a nod, and just like that, they were let in. They weren't even asked to show their cards.
Dmitri managed to keep a straight face until they were through the doors, before Oksana gripped his sleeve and smothered a giggle into his shoulder. "I can't believe that worked!"
He couldn't help but smile in return, a little giddy himself. This was the real world now. It was startling just how easy things were. How… unguarded people could be, to people like them. Agents. Spiders. Widows.
"Alright, game faces on," Sabina whispered as they crossed the interior lobby out onto a catwalk that overlooked the main dancing floor. "Find your targets and move out."
"Save your comms for emergencies," Dmitri added, in turn affecting an American accent; he vaguely recalled some SHIELD agents who had been so blunderingly obvious with their otherwise unnoticeable earpieces. "It's not like the movies, you don't need to touch your ear for them to work."
"Right, Bonnie?" Annika whispered, using Oksana's cover name. They all remembered their equipment test last week where she struggled to remember this wasn't like the movies.
"Shut up," Oksana muttered, reaching up to touch her ear self-consciously — before remembering last second and reorienting to tuck her hair back instead. "If you see a sad programmer with premature balding and weak shoulders, let me know."
They hung out on the catwalk for a few minutes, surveying the scene and affecting the aura of bored, hungry youth. Marking out entry and exit points, security cameras, various club personnel, and any potentially dangerous clientele. Dmitri could already point out a few different members of Bratva, Yakuza, or other gangs. Men who were packing and definitely shouldn't be in this place. In this instance, not an issue, they had no reason to come into contact with any criminal elements. None of their targets were overtly dangerous. Just regular civilians. Easy targets. Maybe too easy. But Dmitri wasn't going to complain. He'd much prefer a bored accountant than a mafia princess. He doubted the Red Room would want to risk any politically-motivated antics on a training mission.
Said accountant was easily found. Annika pointed her out first, a woman sitting alone at the bar, nursing a shot of vodka. Oh, that's bad.
"Good luck out there, tiger," Sabina said, with a nudge into his side. Oksana and Rada had already found their targets and were moving in for the kill. He kept their positions in the back of his mind as he pulled away from the railing.
Dmitri homed in on Johanna Mikhailovna Ismaylova, still sitting alone as he approached the bar. She matched the photos given, mid-t0-late thirties, dark hair pulled back, a dress a little out of fashion, make-up only half-hearted. Not unattractive, just… not at her best, perhaps. She didn't appear to be particularly enjoying herself.
He angled away from her, choosing a seat perpendicular to her. An excellent spot to watch her from while maintaining a certain amount of distance. Enough where she didn't notice him from the intense study of her vodka, nor overhear a couple minutes later when he asked the bartender to slide her another drink.
There was an art to attracting a target, man or woman. For Red Room agent especially, it was key to have them approach him first. That way, it put them in an apparent position of power. Let them think they were making all the choices.
In this instance, it meant giving Johanna the choice to approach him. Make Dmitri appear as non-threatening as possible. Something he couldn't do if he just slid right up to her offhand, a move that a certain amount of confidence and assholeishness was needed.
And Dmitri had read her report. Much of it had been pulled from Johanna's multiple dating app profiles, where she wanted romance. She wanted uncomplicated, she wanted fun, she wanted to be young again, in a world that was already convinced she was too old and losing value with every passing day.
Her profiles did not indicate an age preference, though from her history she was not hunting for significantly younger men. But Dmitri wondered if that was really personal preference, or just part of the dating app social construct? Perhaps she wouldn't allow herself that, even if she really wanted a younger man. He was about to find out soon enough.
The second vodka shot slid in front of her nose, and Johanna looked up in surprise at the bartender. Dmitri could read her lips from here, I didn't order this, and the bartender's reply in turn, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Dmitri. Johanna's eyes flicking towards him, that sharp double-take at what she saw not being what she expected. Cheeks reddening, her eyes going down again. Staring at that shot glass, blinking several times. Shaking her head to herself, glancing at Dmitri again, to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
But Dmitri had ensured he was sitting alone, so there would be no mistaking who sent her the drink. The second time he smiled at her, taking a sip of his own vodka (this time, bartender did require to see his ID).
Again, Johanna looked down again. Thinking, watching her think and debate with herself, lips moving as she was either talking herself up or down. Maybe she wouldn't go for him after all. Maybe she realized she was already too drunk to be doing this.
And yet, as Dmitri pretended to drink his vodka, he watched as Johanna downed one glass, then the other, in quick succession. Whoa. Then she stood up, perhaps a little too fast, as she stumbled slightly grabbing her purse. Dmitri averted his gaze, pretending not to notice until Johanna appeared next to him. "This seat open?"
Dmitri looked up, as though surprised, and gave her a smile. "Of course."
Johanna appeared slightly wary. Slightly hopeful. She slid into the seat next to him, smelling strongly of a perfume she was over enthusiastic in putting on that evening. "American? You're a long way from home."
"Here on a trip," Dmitri replied easily. Declan Albuquerque was the son of affluent parents and partook in frequent summer excursions across the globe. His main hobby was clubbing, which also happened to be his only interest when traveling as well. He only appeared cultured. "Thought I'd take in the beauty of your city."
Johanna laughed, a rough, dry sound. "Is that how you kids flirt these days?" Then she seemed to catch herself, embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm not trying to make fun of you. I just— you're younger than I expected."
His smile remained unchanged, just a tilt of his head to acknowledge her concern. "I'm old enough, don't worry."
Johanna gave him a look like she was still definitely worried. Her eyes dropped down to his vodka, back to him, making some silent consideration. "Alright, sure. I'll take your word for it. Are you, uh, you in college or something?"
"Taking a sabbatical before I graduate," Dmitri replied easily, before offering his hand. "Declan, since you asked."
Johanna flushed, embarrassed. Keeping her on her backfoot, pushing her to redeem herself for her lapse in propriety. "Right, sorry. Johanna. It's nice to meet a fellow sojourner, Declan."
Dmitri picked up on a shift in her tone. "How do you mean? You're not from here?"
Johanna shook her head. "Minsk, actually. Of course, when I was born, this was all still the USSR, so depending on who you ask I'm still at home. Unless you're my mother, of course. Hates that I moved here. But that's where the money is. Or where it's supposed to be."
Declan Albuquerque was too young, too stupid, and too rich to understand the nuance of Johanna's situation. He wouldn't know the finer points of life behind the Iron Curtain, what it was like to grow up under the ghosts of the Cold War. If he was truly Declan, he'd say some stupid platitude he got off Instagram and utter it in an attempt to be understanding, but didn't actually want to, because he didn't care.
But Dmitri wasn't Declan Albuquerque. He could put on a new personality like it was just another shirt to change into, but he couldn't forget his history lessons. It added another layer to the sad, lonely woman he read on a sheet of paper. He frowned softly and said, "And you're out here on your own?"
"Yeah," Johanna sighed, waving her hand for another drink. They clinked their glasses, and once more she downed it in one go. "I guess you could say I'm lucky. No kids in the mix to make things messy. Just a sharp, clean separation. Twice." She closed her eyes and shuddered, perhaps tasting the bitter after effects of the vodka. "Sorry, you're way too young for this shit. I swear I'm not usually like this. It's, er, been a while since I've had someone to talk to."
The vodka certainly helped. But Dmitri just shook his head and gave her a sympathetic smile. "It's alright. I'm used to hearing about dumb stuff, you know, so-and-so unfollowed me, this person didn't like my photo, that person won't call me back. Just… shallow stuff. You have, ah, you know, real problems. You've… I don't know, you've actually got a life."
Dmitri hoped he affected enough simple-minded earnesty to those words. A young man desperately trying to connect outside his small window of experience.
Johanna nearly snorted into her drink. "A life? Yeah, I wish. Having a job isn't a life. But sure. I'm not obsessed with social media. At least I don't think I am. Besides, you have it good right now — you definitely won't be saying all of that in ten years, after you've been working as long as I have. Don't say you find all of this attractive."
She wasn't buying it. Not yet. Dmitri studied her for a long moment, choosing his next words carefully. "But what if I do?"
He was tempted to reach out for her hand, but stayed his touch. Just let his fingers lie near hers across the table, let Johanna notice it. She had to be the one to make the first move. That way, Dmitri could be sure he had her.
And notice she did. Johanna stared at him for a moment, taken aback slightly. She seemed to shift on her seat, certainly tipsy if not on her way to drunk. Her eyes cast over the counter, and finally focused on his hand, as Dmitri intended. It took a moment, before her hand slid over to his. A little slow, uncertain, maybe even surprised when he didn't pull away.
Her hand was warm, maybe even a little clammy from the humidity inside the club. Johanna was silent as she studied Dmitri's hand, running her thumb over his palm as he turned it over. Definitely in the Contemplative state of drunkenness, reflective, lost in her own thoughts. Still well within the bounds of cognitive function.
It's only when her brow furrowed did Dmitri ask, "What's wrong?"
Johanna blinked, as if remembering where she was, and mumbled to herself, "Oh, it's… it's nothing. I wasn't expecting your hands to be so… calloused."
"I play a lot of tennis," he lied, a little too fast. Stupid, and not particularly romantic. How else to explain some of the scarring on his hand? Dmitri made sure to keep his sleeves down so she didn't immediately notice the scar around his wrist. If Johanna was any more sober, she might be able to guess that.
"Of course you do," She snorted, more to herself than to him. "You must have the perfect life."
"What makes you say that?"
"Dunno," Her hooded eyes remained focused on his hand. "You just… got that look to you. Nice clothes. Pretty face. You've got no business talking to me. Why don't you go out on the dance floor and find someone your age?"
Dmitri never thought a woman's own insecurity might ruin his mission. Unacceptable. Time to turn up the knobs. He leaned in slightly, a more intimate presence, "Only if you go out there with me."
Johanna closed her eyes and grinned, clearly flattered and knowing it. "Oh no, I'm not falling for that. You don't want to see me dance."
"Would you like to watch me dance?" Dmitri offered. Paused for a moment, then strategically added in an undertone, "It doesn't have to be here."
Johanna opened her eyes. He waited for that, making sure she was watching when he lifted her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. Never breaking eye contact, carefully studying how her pupils grew larger, darker, hungrier. Taking him in. Devouring him.
Yes. She wanted to see that.
"I-I got," Johanna started, her voice rough. She cleared her throat, straightening slightly, "I've got a place. Just a few blocks away."
Success.
Dmitri smiled. "Lead the way."