⧗ CHAPTER FORTY-ONE ⧗


"Alright, Wolf Spider, time to engage,"

The gala was lively tonight.

Dmitri wasn't aware of the specific occasion, only that some rich person in Moscow had something to celebrate. They always had to do it in some big way. That was not the important part. What was important was who was here, and what they brought with them.

"The senator always keeps the drive on his person," Galina spoke into their ear pieces. She had the bird's eye view on the balcony above, watching it all and directing them with a glass of champagne in hand. "Lift it, hold it near the array so it'll copy the drive, and place it back. He'll never know the difference."

"He will when he tries to use it again," Dmitri spoke under his breath. The array was little more than a wallet fold with some fancy electronics inside. Close contact was all that was required to steal digital information. Dmitri was careful not to brush too close to anyone with a visible phone.

"He won't have the chance," Galina replied. "He's too busy schmoozing the Swedes."

Indeed, the American senator was laughing it up with a group of other dignitaries, about fifty feet away. Dmitri had to navigate past the open bar and dance floor in order to reach him.

He blended right in with his tuxedo suit and perfectly coiffed hair. Jacket sleeves carefully hid the Widow's Bite gauntlets, which a passing glimmer might easily be construed as a very large, very expensive watch he's trying to hide. A live band played music that echoed off the tall ceilings of the regal theater hall.

Chatter all around him. Mostly politicians, some celebrities, some billionaires and businessmen. More than a few spies, as Dmitri determined. Russian agents, obviously, and CIA, always at war. He spotted what may be also French and Israeli operatives, nothing too alarming. All of them were the kind of people you'd expect to be here, to want to stay in the know.

"How's infiltration, Widow?" Galina asked.

"No detours yet," Sabina answered in an undertone. She was currently in the company of a very rich, very drunk man who was unwittingly giving her access to his private computer within his hotel room, which he wouldn't last a few more seconds of seeing. "Just tell me when the code is sent."

"I'm on my way," was all Dmitri replied. He didn't expect a response from Sabina and didn't receive one. Best not to make a big deal out of it.

She had been cold to him since graduation. Though they had sworn nothing would change, deep down Dmitri knew it had to, and he was right. Though he'd been given an order he couldn't refuse, though they had all agreed to the same pact — one that Dmitri thought he had followed through on as promised — he knew Sabina hadn't forgiven him for Oksana.

He tried not to think about it. Not when her face still lingered in his dreams.

Dmitri couldn't make a direct beeline to the Senator. That would be too obvious. He needed to work his way into the circle, either strike up a conversation or get the angle just right for a brush pass. But better to start a conversation he can return to later, in order to return the flash drive.

He paused by the bar, ordered a glass of champagne. Something light for his empty stomach.

And then:

"Hey, do I know you?"

Those were never the words a secret agent wanted to hear, ever, whether on or off duty. Dmitri turned, feigning confusion rather than the alarm he felt, as Galina's voice babbled in his ear. He didn't recognize the girl that had appeared next to him at the bar.

He's sure he would have remembered her if he had. Half the girl's face was covered in scars. From her left cheek, all the way back to her ear, up the side of her face and down around her neck, and further beyond the collar of her dress, the girl was covered in mottled scarring, what looked to be the remnants of third degree burns across a significant portion of her body. Her brown hair was curled in ringlets and styled just so to cover some of the scarring across her head and face. Her left eye was paler than the right.

And she was smiling at him. A startled, bewildered, but nevertheless happy smile. "We have met before, haven't we?"

"I, uh," Dmitri blinked, shaking his head. Clearly this must be a case of mistaken identity. The girl sounded Russian, and so did he, to match his cover identity. Still, he couldn't share the sudden unease he felt. "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong person."

"Oh," The girl's smile faded a little. "My apologies, then. You just looked familiar. I figured you were one of the suitors my father had invited. Figured we must have met at some point."

"Wolf Spider, disengage," Galina hissed in his ear.

Should Dmitri entertain this conversation? Probably not. Was he intrigued? Absolutely.

So he ignored Galina for the moment. No reason to draw attention to himself by being rude. "Suitors?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yes, suitors. My father is very old-fashioned. Wanted to give me a debutante ball, but everyone here is just…" she made a face. "So old."

Dmitri cut a furtive look over his shoulder. If this was a debutante ball, then he was a monkey's uncle. "You're joking. I thought this was for a fundraiser."

"Yes, funding my father's ego," The girl sighed. She looked no older than himself, and didn't seem particularly interested in her own champagne, sipping it half-heartedly. "Invites all the richest men in the world and hopes maybe they'll bring along someone of suitable age. But you're the only one here I've noticed."

That was… disconcerting, Dmitri decided. Galina was seething above him, but he thought this might be interesting. He put on a smile and offered his hand. "Well, unfortunately, I'm someone else's plus one. But you can call me Kirill."

"Well, a pleasure to meet you, Kirill," the girl replied, shaking his hand in perfunctory manner. Clearly raised with good manners, but sick of the whole affair. "I'm Antonia. Antonia Dreykova."

Dmitri choked on his champagne. "Dreykova? As in—?"

Antonia rolled her eyes again. "Yes, yes, Dreykov. That is my father. For better or worse."

"Ah," Dmitri said, his throat suddenly dry. His words were faint. "My apologies."

In his ear, Galina sounded alarmed. "Did she say Dreykov?"

But Dmitri couldn't respond, not when Antonia was asking him, "I don't suppose you have an intensely ambitious and fascinating career to impress my father with, do you? I think the next youngest man here is twenty-seven. And I need someone new to dance with."

"Dancing, I can do," Dmitri said, now unsure of how to get himself out of this situation. Antonia didn't recognize him, thankfully, not really — he himself barely recognized that girl he'd known for only a few moments in Budapest. He had no idea how badly she'd been injured in the explosion. That she had even survived at all, in the end. "Unfortunately, I don't think my stage career will be very interesting to your father."

Antonia pouted, but sighed and put down her glass. She held out a hand for him to take. "It's fine. I suppose I can't get everything. But I'd love a dance, pretend something is real for a moment."

That, Dmitri could do. This entire mission was a performance, and to make a poor girl happy for a minute or two was hardly a challenge. Especially when she was Dreykov's daughter. How did the Madame fail to mention that detail? What role did she have to play in all of this?

As he escorted her to the dance floor, Antonia said, "And thank you for not mentioning it."

"Mentioning what?" Dmitri asked, as they began a waltz. Her steps were perfectly, and they flowed easily together, swaying to the music. Then he noticed her droll look and feigned further ignorance. "I swear, I'd never be so uncouth."

Antonia rolled her eyes again, apparently a frequent thing with her, but this time she smiled. "Well, I appreciate it. I can only tell the story a hundred times before it gets dull. The only reason I bring it up now is because — well, you remind me of someone at that time. A boy, younger than you are now. He saved my life."

Shit. Dmitri kept smiling, with a touch of compassion. "I'm sorry. I wish I could say I was him. I'm sure we'd have much more to talk about, then."

"The coincidence of it all!" Antonia grinned, lost in the fantasy of it. "I couldn't imagine what might have brought him here again, if he was you. Like a chance encounter. Like… like one of those corny romantic movies. The American ones. Father hates those."

"They are pretty awful," Dmitri conceded.

"Yes, but I think its romantic." Antonia sighed. "And so often I think, people take sentimentality as some kind of flaw."

"In the world your father runs in, it might be."

"Well, I wish I didn't —" Antonia began, but suddenly her expression changed, from a scowl to a too-perfect smile, as her gaze switched from Dmitri to someone behind him. "Papa! I'd like you to meet Kirill!"

Dmitri's heart practically launched out of his throat as they stopped and turned, coming face to face with the man he'd only see pictures of.

Dreykov was shorter than Dmitri thought. Big square head, jowly, balding, with glasses that didn't fit his face and cold watery eyes. Squat, like a toad, almost. Baffling, how someone as pretty and charming as Antonia could've come from… this.

Next to him stood none other than the American senator that Dmitri so desperately needed to steal from. There was no escape. Only endurance.

"Antonia," the man regarded his daughter with what appeared to be little more than reluctant affection. "Why are you wasting your time with strangers?"

"Papa!"

"Come now, Anton," the American laughed, clapping Dreykov on the shoulder. He didn't seem to notice the glare he got in return."Give the kid a chance. They got a nice charm together, look at 'em. Ain't nothing wrong with a little dance."

"Only when they are scoundrels," Dreykov replied, turning a suspicious look to Dmitri.

He swallowed nervously, taking on the affect of a young and stupid boy rightfully intimidated by a pretty girl's father. And not the spy terrified of being caught by the one man who so greedily hungered for Red Room agents. As any young stupid boy would, he put his best foot forward and offered a hand and a smile, "Kirill Petrov, sir. It's an honor to meet you."

Dreykov sneered at the hand. But the American took it, as casually as if they were of the same class and social standing. Close enough that, with a quick sleight of hand, he wouldn't notice Dmitri finding the drive hidden behind his lapel pocket. "Well met, son! What brings you here?"

"I was invited," Dmitri replied easily, taking on a bit of youthful swagger. "I'm a dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet. One of my friends had an invite and brought me along. Just here for the company."

"No kidding! You guys sure do take your ballet seriously here," The senator grinned, and Dmitri was starting to find his folksy manner a little grating. Something false about it that he found condescending. "Dreykov, you should get us some tickets!"

Dmitri chuckled nervously (not an act), while Antonia perked up and added, "Oh, yes, I've love to see you perform!" Throwing her sparkling eyes upon him.

He sincerely hoped she wasn't developing a crush on him. Meanwhile, Dreykov grumbled and delayed until the combined forces of his daughter and the senator had him heaving a sigh, and flicking a hand to beckon someone over. "Fine, fine. I'm sure my secretary can find us some tickets."

Dmitri didn't think it could get worse.

Not until Yelena appeared.

A sweep of a rich blue dress and flat, lifeless eyes. Yelena appeared by Dreykov's side, wordless and phone in hand. She said nothing, her eyes casting over Dmitri without a hint of recognition, while his stomach squeezed tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe anymore.

Yelena. She was here. She was alive.

And she didn't recognize him.

Her gaze fell right back to Dreykov as she took down his orders, and slipped away again before Dmitri could say or do anything. Just watched as that blue fabric disappeared into the crowd again, like a ghost.

"Charming, isn't she," Dreykov said, breaking Dmitri's reverie. When he looked back again, Dreykov was smiling at him. More like… leering. "She's one of my best employees. So hard to find good help these days."

"Dmitri," Galina hissed in his ear. "Get the hell out of there before your cover is blown."

"Does he have the drive?" Sabina asked.

Dmitri knew he couldn't linger. Returning the drive may not be an option, but getting it was paramount to mission success. So he pasted on a smile and excused himself, thanking Antonia for the lovely dance, and giving the Senator warm regards. "I hope to see you in the audience sometime."

"Of course!" The senator grinned, not questioning the overly warm farewell handshake-and-shoulder-pat combo that seemed to fly so well in American society. The sudden loss of weight from the drive would be imperceptible.

Antonia looked sad to see him go, but for whatever chaotic instinct compelled him, Dmitri gave her one wink past her father's shoulder, where he wouldn't see, and got a delightful grin in return.

"Alright, I'm out," Dmitri muttered under his breath, two-timing it to the men's bathroom. At worst, he could toss the drive across the floor and hope the senator thinks he dropped it while in the toilets. Less suspicious that way, and highest chances of him frequenting this area above all others.

Slipping into the furthest stall, he locked the door and waited until the array gave a little beep to indicate its upload was complete. Sabina relayed her confirmation, and then he chucked the drive across the tile floor like he was skipping rocks across the lake. Then, pulling off his jacket, he stepped onto the toilet and dislodged the grate to the vent overhead.

By the time anyone could question how an empty stall could lock itself from the inside, he'd be long gone.