Newhall Pass, Los Angeles, California, September 1947
"... But more importantly, who the Hell are you two?"
Who the Hell are you?
Ivan can't believe such words came out of the blonde's pretty mouth. Who the Hell are you? Crazy girl runs toward a speeding car, shooting at those… things. Then stops that car with her bare hands, subduing the creature, and reduces it to smoke. She stands before him, arms akimbo like they've just casually run into one another. Nevermind her rapidly healing injuries and glowing gold eyes. And she's the one looking impatiently at him.
"None of your business," Ivan answers, mirroring her pose. There's a set of gold bangles on her right wrist that glint in the sun. "However, I would like to speak with Aleksandra Nikolaevna Volkova."
"We're on a tight schedule, Dot. And they saw what happened," the blonde says, stony faced until she looks back. "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine!" Volkova snaps. Her eyes look dark and cloudy.
"No you're not."
"I - Aaah!"
Volkova crumples to the ground clutching her head, moaning and muttering. The blonde couches down next to her trying to help. "Dottie! Dottie! Alya! Look at me, Alya!" she says as the moans start becoming cries of pain.
"It's… it's inside… inside…"
"Fucking Christ, what the fuck is going on?" Joaquín mutters to Ivan.
He looks over at the still burning car and whatever's left in the inferno. He walks over to the blonde and, putting a hand on her shoulder, says, "Hey, lady, we can handle her. She probably can't sit on that motorcycle, anyway."
Ivan didn't see her move and yet she stands in front of him with a knife pressed against his ribs. Any sudden moves, and the blonde girl could plunge it into his heart. He knows it's a commando knife and can penetrate the thickest winter uniform the Red Army issues, including the great coat. He knows the Brits don't give that knife out to just anyone. She glares up at him, not in anger, but cold calculation. Aside from the strange powers and glowing eyes, Ivan has a very good idea what this woman is.
"Let's get this straight. She's not going anywhere without me. And I'm of half a mind to kill you and your friend and take the lorry myself," she says, her voice low and husky.
"And yet you haven't." It can't be a coincidence that Volkova's pain started mere moments after the car exploded. "This is none of your business. Let us take Volkova and you can go and forget all about this."
"I don't hand friends over to strangers. Who the Hell are you to take her?"
"Do you know what she is, Miss? She is a danger to society. A rogue agent on the run from the law."
"So what? She's no more guilty than you or me, I figure. We've all got red on our ledgers. You just have a state protecting your arse." She risks a quick glance towards Volkova before looking back at him. "But I think I know more about what's going on than you do. Because putting a bullet into her is only the beginning of your problems."
They stare at one another, daring the other to flinch. To blink. To back down…
Volkova lets out a pained shriek.
"It's only going to get worse if we do nothing," the blonde says. "I've got people who can handle this."
"And I have a duty to not let her out of my sight."
"And I am not leaving her." She moves a little closer to him, speaking softly but not with a threat. "I'm not going to fight you, I just need you to understand that what she's going through is much bigger than whatever mission you've been sent on. But I'm not letting her go off alone with you. I'm coming whether you like it or not."
Ivan takes a long moment to think. The blonde's strong and fast. She could go through his men with ease. And then there's Volkova, moaning and sick on the ground. It would be so easy to pop her in the head, right behind the ear. But the blonde's here and he knows she'd drop him and Joaquín in an instant. Then there's that thing. He'd seen the black liquid tendril whip out and toss a car on the freeway like a toy. Its death scream that will haunt his dreams the rest of his days.
What if they've stumbled into something far more dangerous than planned?
"Hey, Joaquín, we're gonna help the lady put the bike in the box," Ivan tells him in English. Might as well be transparent.
"Eh, sure thing jefe," he replies, sounding like he can't believe what's happening.
The knife tip leaves Ivan's ribs and he tries to hide the sigh of relief.
"Sorry 'bout that. Just needed to get you to understand my point." Then she sticks out her hand. "I'm Emily by the way. Emily Gower."
"Ivan," he replies, shaking her hand. She's got a firm grip. And he's starting to see more green around the edges of her eyes that remind him of a cat.
She goes over to Volkova, gets her sitting and speaks to her quietly.
"The fuck are you thinking, Ivan," Joaquín whispers in Spanish while Ivan lowers the tailgate.
"She's right about that thing. We don't know what we're dealing with. And we can learn more about what the Brits are up to."
Joaquín shrugs, "It's your funeral."
Emily helps Volkova into the truck's box then turns to both men. "I can get the bike in here just fine."
"Alright then," Ivan says. "You two will be alright in the back?"
She nods, jumping down to pick up the motorbike, "We'll behave."
In the cab, Ivan is met with a suspicious look from Joaquín. "Didn't take you for a sucker for pretty women."
"I didn't take you for being nosy," Ivan shoots back. "And we're gonna need gas right away."
"Good thing we're close to the place on Pine."
Santa Clarita
"Peggy, there's a petrol station I need to stop at," Michael says.
"Why exactly?" she asks with growing irritation.
"We have some associates we need to meet up with," he starts explaining.
"And Emily's the type to storm a castle by herself. It's best if she knows where you're taking us," Roger interjects.
"Just what we need. More God damn English people," Daniel sighs.
"Emily's Welsh, and she won't let you forget it," Roger quips.
Peggy throws her hands in the air, "Fine! The car needs petrol anyway."
She gets into the car, slamming the door with extra vigor. Michael can only sigh. He was right to be worried. And he knows that there's no excuse. He should have found a way to contact them. He should have said something. Maybe that could have prevented whatever disaster their family's become.
Part of him thinks that's a lie. The Carter family was never a happy family and perhaps it was only a matter of time. The right pressure, the right disaster, and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down.
He turns to Roger, gripping his arm. Poor love looks awful all beaten up. "I'm sure you'll be able to freshen up wherever we're going. Get you something nice to wear."
"Oh you spoil me, darling," Roger drawls.
"I like to. Anyway, don't talk Sousa's ear off while I'm gone."
"Please, I'm an excellent conversationalist! I'm sure 'Agent' Sousa and I will have much to talk about."
The horn from Peggy's car blares with particular aggression.
"Watch yourself Michael, she bites, remember!"
"I know."
Michael climbs into the passenger seat while Peggy pointedly doesn't look at him. They sit in stone silence until he tries lighting up a cigarette.
"You know I don't like that habit. Stinks up the car," Peggy says.
"You sound like Mother," he replies, putting the cigarette case back in his pocket.
"You are acting like a sulking child."
Michael bites his tongue. Getting compared to Mother is something of a sore spot for Peg. He doesn't want to be petty, he understands the chilly reception. It's not as if he knows what Peg's relationship with her superiors is like. All he knew was that Thompson was a stooge for HYDRA - wittingly or not. It must look different from her perspective.
They go back to stone silence as they approach the petrol station. There's a bit of a line up for the pumps which adds to the frustration. At least it's cooling off as evening approaches.
Perhaps Emily and Dottie are waiting.
"Don't move," Peggy scolds as Michael makes to get out of the car.
"Emily's likely waiting for us."
"Bully for her, you're not leaving my sight."
A tap on the window interrupts the argument. A young blonde woman peers in on the passenger side.
"Speak of the devil," Michael says with a smirk that makes Peggy roll her eyes. He rolls down the window and she leans in.
"Glad I caught you, Michael," the blonde says in a rush with a distinct Welsh lilt.
"Same here. Anyway," he gestures to Peggy. "Emily, this is my sister, Peggy Carter. Peggy, this is Emily Gower."
"Ma'am," Emily greets with a slight head bob. For a brief moment, the women stare at each other. Perhaps reading each other. She doesn't know why, but she finds Emily such an odd little creature. Sylph-like with her delicate features, strawberry blonde hair, and large, hazel eyes upturned in a way to give her a feline quality. And like a cat, her face is an unreadable mask.
Emily turns her head to talk to Michael, saying, "Bad news. The Reds caught up to us. As well as the other things. Dottie's in a bad way, too."
Dottie? She can't be talking about Dottie Underwood, right? What are the chances? But in the chaos of the previous weeks, Peggy's completely lost track of her.
"Bring her over here, we can probably help," Michael replies.
"Can't do that and there's not enough time. Made a deal with Comrade Ivan."
"You're not serious?"
"Unfortunately." She palms something to Michael. "Call me in two hours."
Peggy watches as Michael grips Emily's hand. He used to do that to get Peggy's attention. To focus on her when she's upset. To comfort her.
"I trust you," Michael says to Emily. "Take care."
"You, too," Emily replies. She briefly looks up at Peggy with a look that seems to bore into her soul. Taking her measure. And then she's gone in the blink of an eye.
"We're going to Howard Stark's estate in Hollywood," Peggy blurts out, feeling almost compelled to say it.
Emily nods again, "Thank you, ma'am."
"Bloody Hell," he sighs, opening his hand to reveal a crumpled Camels cigarette package. He inspects it, then something on the inside catches his attention, "'Malabar Foundry Company'. She'll be fine. She's always fine."
He says it more to himself. To sooth his fears.
Peggy understands Roger. She's known him since they were children. He's a familiar and often welcomed presence in her life. Roger did wonder's for Michael, even if their parents didn't approve of their closeness. But Emily Gower…
Christ, she can't even say they've truly met. They haven't even talked. Who is she to judge? What can she judge Emily Gower on? It's not like Peggy's jealous. She and Michael are friends. Nothing more special than that.
It's their turn for petrol and Peggy's mind turns elsewhere.
Roger gives a hearty "cheers" to the young man attending the pump before climbing back in, where Sousa's been waiting, gun laying against his stomach just so to avoid anyone seeing it beneath the folds of his coat. Roger spies him as he starts the engine and begins to drive. "You know, even if I did plan on some manner of mutiny, that wouldn't help you."
"Maybe it just feels nice to have. Boosts my confidence."
Roger grins. "Oh Daniel, I'm sure a man like you has plenty of confidence. No need to compensate."
Daniel's eyes almost reflexively roll at the man's comment. He had the sense that it was a little more than the bravado tossed around by military men of similar attitude. Not that he was concerned with the…proclivities he suspected of Mr. Aubrey (he had buddies in the Navy, after all). But did he have to be so damn brash about them? "What are you, anyway?"
"An Inhuman," Roger replies easily, craning his neck to keep an eye on Margot's driving.
"That much is obvious."
"No, that's the technical term apparently. Though a friend of mine thinks it might be closer to a mutation."
"Okay. So these…'Inhumans'. They all turn into diamonds like you?"
"No. Well, I don't believe so. I've yet to have the honour of meeting another one myself. But if they're anything like an evolved human, then I'd assume they're all unique. Some may have enhanced speed, or strength, or even a voice so commanding it's stronger than hypnotism."
Daniel balks at the thought. Doctor Fenhoff - the alleged Doctor Faustus, as apparently he'd come to be known while incarcerated - had almost completely kneecapped the SSR, killed Dooley, and nearly destroyed New York after turning Howard Stark into a puppet. And that was all using regular hypnotism. If someone stronger than that was out there…
Roger looks back to Sousa. "Ah, I see. You haven't experienced much regarding these secret wars, have you?"
"Are you capable of giving me a straight answer?" Daniel demands. "Or does everything you say have to be couched in a layer of condescension."
Roger clicks his tongue. "You're no fun. But fine, let me get you up to speed. I'm sure Michael is giving Margot the same talk anyways.
"There are many people out in the world with certain…abilities. You're familiar with some, I'm sure - Steve Rogers, Johan Schmidt, Whitney Frost, and now those fellows at the factory back there. Powers that defy conventional wisdom."
"Yeah. Super Soldiers and freaks that couldn't pass the bar."
"How reductive. There's more than just serums and zero matter out there. Extraterrestrial technology, dark magicks, even quirks of biology that gift people with powers that unlock with just the right stimulus. Take myself for example - something in my body was poised to react to a certain chemical compound that HYDRA had discovered." Roger's glibness faded away so suddenly that Daniel had to look closely, to make sure the man was still alright. "It was…well. It was a camp, like the ones you've heard about. Except this time there were no bodies to dispose of." He sucks the air in through his teeth. "They…"
Despite his continued distrust of the man, Daniel finds a little sympathy and lowers his weapon. "Listen, we all saw horrible things during the War. I don't blame you for skipping over those details."
"Right." Roger breathes some relief, swallows, and continues. "Suffice to say, I developed my abilities in spite of their extermination attempts. I used the chance to tear my way out of that camp and eventually made my way to Greece, and lo and behold I stumbled upon some of my old friends and their new associates. We became quite the motley crew - a diamond dandy, a super soldier, a vampiress in the making, a siren, a fallen angel, and two nice young chaps to round it out. Even without the additions we made upon reaching the mainland, we had the makings of the strangest squadron the SOE had ever laid eyes on."
Daniel didn't understand half the descriptors Roger had thrown out, and didn't exactly want to think on the heavier implications of them at the moment. "So why did we never hear about this?"
"You probably did, just not the whole story. That was the idea that was decided on for our little troupe - we'd take the missions the Crown didn't want connected directly to them, then hit HYDRA and the Nazis in such unbelievable ways that they had plausible deniability. Any word of, say, a flaming skull torching collaborateurs would be chalked up to hyperbole and poor memory, and any tales of us that did reach the public were mixed in with all the other legends and tall tales of the war. To many, Union Jack and his Invaders are no more genuine than ghosts or gremlins."
"Good God…That's Michael, isn't it? Union Jack?"
"Now you're catching on."
"Yeah, yeah. So, war ends. And you and your little crew do…what, exactly? You never went public with anything. Are you still in the government's pocket?"
"Ah, no. Quite the opposite actually…"
North Hollywood
Emily rests her head against the back window of the lorry. The wind whips her hair as she watches the sun descend behind the mountains. An older model burgundy Ford has been following them for the past few miles and she starts thinking it's connected to Comrade Ivan. Driver's not taking any evasive maneuvers and when they get to an intersection, the burgundy Ford comes up next to the lorry and Ivan leans out the window to talk with the Ford's driver.
She's sure they're Soviets, or at least affiliated. Ivan certainly is - if not the name, then the accent makes it clear that English is his third language. Much like Emily's own French. Dottie's got a lot of enemies, but the Yanks and HYDRA love overwhelming force. The Deep Ones were clearly not part of the plan, but Comrade Ivan could adapt.
Dottie rests in her arms. Emily gave her a syrette of morphine earlier. All she hopes is that Dottie will rest, though she dreads the thought of trapping her with the deep things that have infected her mind.
What am I doing? She can't possibly put any trust in this Ivan fellow. Should have just taken the lorry and…
Dottie stirs. She's feverish and shivers from the chills running through her. Emily doesn't know how long the morphine will last. There will be Hell once she wakes up. She can sense it. Maybe she, Michael, and Roger could handle whatever comes next, but truthfully their knowledge is slim.
It's the light in a cave from a small candle. There's so much they don't know. Casting around in the dark for some semblance of an answer is what they've always done.
But right now, the only thing that matters is Dottie and keeping her safe.
Emily whispers to Dottie, grasping her hands, "Hold on, Alya. Just hold on. You'll be safe and well soon."
"If I remember correctly, Operation Meridian was the sister to Project Rebirth. I am baffled as to why you of all people were chosen for it," Peggy says as they leave the gas station.
Michael shrugs, "I was available."
"'Available'? Really? Nothing more special?"
"Not all of us are God's gift to the US army like Steve Rogers, are we?"
"No," she answers after a long pause. No one is, and no one will ever be.
"I wasn't the only one chosen for the project - as far as I know, there were a dozen officers selected and I'm the only one who worked out. And I was the last choice."
Steve wasn't anyone's first choice, either. Erskine had seen his potential first. Shame he didn't live long enough to witness Steve in action.
"Who were the others?" Peggy asks.
Michael continues, half somewhere else, "I don't know their names, those weren't given to me. But I understood that they were mostly fellow officers pulled from the Commandos or the SOE. Higher ups didn't want an army of super soldiers, the idea was more like the Commandos but… better. Stronger, faster, smarter. Send a small team deep behind enemy lines and make as much trouble for the Nazis as possible. The ones getting the serum would be the squad leaders, then eventually the rest of the squad."
"And why didn't the others work out?" She's trying to stop herself from getting accusatory. She has to wait.
He shrugs again, "Not enough time. Impatience. I know at least three were killed before anything could be done. One in a plane crash. I was available as a last resort because my 'death' had been misreported and I was still recovering from my injuries. Was later told I was something of a 'reserve' test subject."
"So your 'death' wasn't just a ruse," Peggy says with a sigh.
"No, I was shot, had shrapnel wounds, and then washed down the Dordogne. Got fished out of the river by an anarchist farm widow and her children. Somehow didn't get gangrene or blood poisoning. I think what happened between there and Malta was that another Captain Michael Carter was killed at Tobruk and that's how the idea for a 'reserve' test subject was born."
"And the story we got at home," Peggy adds.
Michael shakes his head, "It's not like I could stop them. The decision was made while I was in hospital. Then they stuck me in a villa near Aqaba. They cut off most contact I had with the outside world to create a legend for Brian Falsworth. All while they were scrambling for a new way to create the serum. That's where Emily enters the story. Helped me retrieve him."
So she was there. Maybe not from the start, but close enough. All the while Peggy was stuck behind a desk in London.
"What's her story?"
"Fellow SOE agent who had bad luck in France and was cooling her heels in Cairo. I had this bonkers idea to go to Turkey to fetch a former student of Erskine's to kick some life back into Meridian," Michael explains.
"Right. How kind of you," Peggy drawls.
He sighs, exasperated, "I thought I could buy my freedom. Give them what they want and they'll let me go."
"And yet, here you are. Clearly the serum worked for you."
Michael looks at Peggy. "Nothing I say will be good enough, will it? Is it all an excuse to you?"
Yes, she thinks, but her temper is starting to show through her voice. "I want the truth, Michael. I don't care how you justify yourself, but if the explanations help you sleep then good for you."
"Fine. I took the serum. It was either me or some poor fool who knew nothing."
"What a hero," Peggy snarks. "What are you, Union Jack?"
"Yes," he answers with the bluntness of a hammer.
It's a connection that should have been so obvious. Everything she heard about Union Jack was a strange echo of Steve's exploits during the war. The fact that Michael took the serum… it all makes sense.
It makes too much sense.
Since the night Thompson was killed, feelings she long repressed started rearing their ugly heads. Peggy missed her brother so much. She wished she could take back everything she had said at the engagement party. She wished she hadn't said those words in the first place. She wanted to be by her brother's side. They were to go on adventures together. They would have taken on the world together. Michael always encouraged Peggy to follow her dreams. To never give up. To press on whenever despite all the doors that got slammed in her face. And she supported him. Comforted him.
Us against the world, right?
"You could have told me, Michael," Peggy says very quietly. "Or Mother and Farther. Or Matthew. You were in London not that long ago."
He's silent, staring off into the dusk city street.
"What was so important that you couldn't say a bloody word?"
He's still silent for what feels like an eternity. Is he trying to make up something that sounds acceptable? A comforting lie? Some heroic tale that will win her to his side? Michael always wanted to be the hero.
"The mission to London, for me, was to rescue Roger and Emily."
Her again. It's so strange, the feeling. Peggy knows that it's completely irrational. She understands and sympathizes with helping Roger if he were in trouble. And if Michael had contacted her, she would have been there without question. A friend of Michael's was a friend of hers, right?
Emily Gower is different. Emily Gower is SOE, too. Emily Gower went to France and it ended badly. Emily Gower got to fight beside Michael. And Peggy spent the rest of her war on the sidelines, watching Steve and the Howling Commandos for the most part. Only going into the field when Philips allowed her. Only when it was useful to have her in the field. Peggy had to fight tooth and nail for the privilege, if not strike out on her own and beg forgiveness later.
In her mind, she sees how Michael held Emily's hand. She sees the way they looked at each other.
Why her? Why not me?
Michael continues, "They were hostages to keep me in line. A clique had risen in power within the service who admired HYDRA a little too much and thought I'd make the perfect weapon against the Soviets and uppity colonials."
"And yet you obediently avoided us," Peggy says. Another thought crosses her mind and she lets out a bitter laugh. "But perhaps that's for the best. Matthew hates you now. He's had to grow up in the shadow of Saint Michael. Nothing he does is good enough for Father. He can never live up to his perfect brother."
Michael can feel his throat tighten. The anger swelling in his chest. These are old wounds and ancient history Peggy's bringing back up.
"And then there's Mother. You know it took years before she stopped crying whenever someone mentioned you."
He forgot that she would strike below the belt to win an argument.
"At least father finally has what he's always wanted. The perfect son who could never disappoint him again."
He had forgotten how vindictive Peggy could be. Of course she brings up Matthew and Father's obsession with legacy and proprietary. She at least has the decency to plunge her knife in his chest; even if she doesn't look at him while doing it. But two can play this game.
"You know I always found it tragic that Father invested so much time in me when he always had his perfect son." Michael turns to look at Peggy. He's not hiding behind anything anymore. "Pity you were born a girl."
Peggy jerks the steering wheel, making a hard turn into an empty grocer's car park and coming to a hard stop.
She gets out of the car, slamming the door. She can barely breathe, she's so angry. It feels like a gutpunch. Like salt in an open wound.
Peggy feels the tears come pouring down. She hears the passenger side door slam and she rounds on her brother. Daniel and Roger pull up as well, but in this moment, all her thoughts are fixed on Michael.
"Fuck you, Michael!" She screams at him. "What the Hell is wrong with you?"
"'Wrong with me'? You're the one who brought up Matthew!" he shouts back.
"You abandoned us!"
Michael opens his mouth but Peggy keeps going. "You always wanted to be the hero! Always wanted to be anyone else! To be anything but the sad, scared little boy you always were! It's why you are always running away!"
"Well look at me now, Peg," he spits back. "Am I running away now? Because I don't think I have anywhere to go given all the bridges I've burned. But at least I'm still not chasing after someone else's approval."
"That is the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, Michael!"
"Is it?" he asks, moving closer to her, "Because I've read your file and let me just say, you haven't changed a bit."
"Bold words coming from someone so obedient."
"I've only done what I've had to do because His Majesty's government had me over a barrel! You were always looking for praise. Looking for someone to finally acknowledge what a brave, clever girl you are. And for all your talk about not caring about other people's opinions, you sure need other men praising you and patting you on the head. Saying 'Good job, Peg! You were right all along, Peg!' All because Father never counted you as important."
Her hands balled into fists to punch Michael in his stupid, perfect face. Daniel grabs her and Roger pushes Michael away before the siblings come to blows.
Malabar Foundry Company, Vernon, California
It's dark when they arrive at a rust covered workshop. Spanish music plays while a group of men hang around the main work floor. Emily can smell dust and grease, cigarette smoke and steel.
"We're here," she whispers into Dottie's ear. She stirs and sits up bleary-eyed. "Can you move?" She nods, but clings to the side of the lorry with one hand and Emily's arm with the other.
They're met with chatter and a wolf whistle as the music's turned off. It's met with what sounds like a sharp rebuke from Ivan in rapid Spanish. The men are staring. Even as they're given orders, they stare. It reminds Emily of Cairo and all the times she wished she was invisible.
"You, Gower," Ivan says, breaking Emily out of her thoughts. "Weapons."
No use lying. Nowhere to hide them. She takes out her empty pistol, unloads the magazine anyway, and holds both up in the air for show before placing them on the ground. Next is her combat knife in its scabbard - something she feels a little sore about - and finally the smaller knife concealed in her trousers' waistband.
"And her," he says, gesturing to Dottie. Emily takes out the Colt pistol and the collection of knives she managed to hide. She's about to take a step back when Dottie murmurs something. "Back…brasier strap."
Emily raises an eyebrow, but she slides a hand in there and grips what feels like another pistol. When she pulls it out, however, she sees a barrel more reminiscent of a Vickers machine gun.
"Is that an automatic?" Ivan asks when he sees it.
"When she's better I'm asking you where I can get one of these for myself," Emily says to Dottie, and the woman, ragged though she is, manages a smirk as she leans into her heroine's body for support. "In any case, the rest of the equipment's in the saddle bags."
He turns to one of his comrades, "Ey, Javi, guarda esas armas." A younger man steps out and starts collecting the weapons. Then to Emily and Dottie, "Follow me."
They cross the floor and head out a side door that leads into what was probably offices and a reception area. He takes them up a flight of stairs to another set of offices and a little kitchen. Comrade Ivan directs them into one of the offices, emptied of most of its furniture except for a camp bed, a table, and two chairs. Emily can't help but notice the newspaper covering the lone window.
It's a cell.
Make yourself numb. Bury everything deep.
"Prisoner again," Dottie weakly whispers as Emily helps her lay down on the camp bed.
Emily squeezes her hand, "Sleep now, you'll need it." Hopefully, those from deep leave her alone. It'll be a tough go even without those cursed things and Dottie needs all the strength she can muster.
She stands and turns to face Ivan, who leans rather casually against the door frame. Rather confidently with his hands in his pockets. Emily shoves her hands into her own pockets and says, "So are you going to interrogate me right now?"
He gives a lopsided smile, "Perhaps."
"'Perhaps,'" she repeats while checking her watch. "I suggest you make up your mind soon, as my people will be calling in roughly five minutes."
He smiles in disbelief, "How could anyone possibly know where you are?"
"Have you not been watching?" she counters. Emily keeps a neutral face, to project an air of calm. If not to hide how she found Ivan rather handsome when he smiles.
"It is one thing to demonstrate your abilities. It is another thing to…"
The telephone rings and the look on Ivan's face immediately tells her that that phone does not ring often.
"Well would you look at that," Emily says with a grin, looking again at her watch. "It's been five minutes."
Ivan points at her as he leaves to take the call, saying, "You stay there."