Alexei, play Despacito

Filipp slumped lower in his seat, covering his mouth with his hand to hide the grin at how unsettled Patrick was getting. This was how the best MI6 interrogators probably got their start in life. He only wished Patrick was unsettled enough to start talking. What are the Flores after was a very bald question. Patrick would probably answer with something that involved the unhelpful word “carat”. The spymasters had taught Jack how to listen and change his appearance with the twitch of a jaw, but not how to extract information. Oh, they spent a year teaching him an obsolete Russian dialect but not how to tweeze out information from the human jitterbug opposite him.

Sighing, Filipp all but gave up. “Just making idle conversation here, Father,” he admitted. “A ‘get to know your coworker’ kind of thing. Bring Your Daughter To Work Day for the permanently single.” His grimace communicated exactly what he thought of Patrick’s lifelong voluntary celibacy. “It makes sense, seeing as you’ll be our good friend on the ground in Rome. Hope you’re looking forward to the hotel’s hospitality.”

Patrick shoots Filipp a look of skepticism. He’s certain there’s a hidden agenda to his line of questioning. Granted, he has no idea what it is or what it could be, but he imagines pressing him for it could prove dangerous. He says nothing of it. Instead, he simply shrug his shoulders and plants both feet back down on the floor. He’s helping the Englishman because Sebastían asked him to. It didn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

He’d always seen himself more in that blond soldier anyway.

Minder duty was a new low for Filipp. Not that Aleksei gave personal attention to the loose ends of the organisation, but Rivkele was property under lien. Wouldn’t do to get dents on it. It was therefore with great regret that he lowered his watered down tequila (it was his secret and the bartender’s) and heaved a sigh. God, he hated the sound of it. It made him feel like a kindly old uncle.

“Maybe you should put your money away,” he said. Maybe he should have stuck to his original plan of keeping an eye on her movements from the building across the street. All this Boy Scout behaviour was giving him toothache. “Didn’t know you had hundred bucks to part with on…” He gestured vaguely at the rapidly escalating violence around the table from hell. “Of course, in this case, giving it to me’s the same as handing it straight to Mr. Makarovich.”

She blames the poor lighting at the club for not immediately recognizing Filipp whatever-his-surname-is, and an uncomfortable twinge at the back of her neck runs down her spine, having been called out. It’s like getting caught misbehaving by a teacher. A teacher roughly the same age as you, who also works directly with the principal-from-hell. And to make matters even more annoying, he’s not even wrong. She knows she has maybe $175 in U.S. currency in her bank account, total, and only a small portion of that in cash. Which is technically meant for food (and vodka, now). But that non-withstanding, she’s certainly she could rack up enough cash to cover the hundred over at the poker tables… though that’s the whole point of being over here and not over there…what a drag. 

Unless of course she did.

Later, Filipp could blame it as being under the influence (of water). He’d have to worry about it only if things went belly-up. God willing it wouldn’t.

“Uh.”

Maybe Filipp had miscalculated in his knee-jerk need to avoid the problem. Geneva—hell, even Berlin—was too far. He’d been hoping to lie low in Tottenham for a while, or maybe skulk in the suburbs. His hopping on a plane to a Brexit-unfriendly country was going to piss of…

Makarovich?

Oh, you colossal idiot.

Jack took a deep, quick breath, steadying himself by reaching across the table to put a stalling hand over Georgina’s phone. “Hold on a second.” God, her phone was hot as a torch. Or maybe it was his palm getting clammy. “Slow down. Pulling me out completely is not good.”

Yes, it is.

You want out. You’ve wanted out for years.

“Makarovich would never okay a leave of absence. And we can’t afford me taking my eyes off him.” Think of the dead man in the river. He didn’t need to remind Georgina of all people. Look at what the Floreses did to his son. “Can you get me out of London with an option to return? A story I can sell to the king of scum. Uh, like the Continental Hotel is on fire. Or Armoury’s trying to headhunt me. Fuck.” His glibness was falling apart like a piñata dunked in a river. “You’re a Company woman, Georgie. Can’t you arrange for a heart attack? That’ll take care of Featherstonhaugh nice and easy.”

Maybe this was her fault. Maybe the whole situation would have been avoided had she been more attentive, done more recon. Or maybe, she was of the habit of overreacting at the slightest threat. An edge she had lost after losing too many friends.

Normally she would have dug her heels in and made her word final. Though her stubbornness  may just be the reason they’re here in the first place. “But leaving you in a compromising position is?” She rebukes. Again she slumps back into her seat.

It’s now clear to her that she miscalculated just how under Makarovich’s thumb he was. She would’ve suggested another extremity he could’ve been on his knees for that would have awarded him the luxury of weekend vacations but, decides to bite her tongue.

To Jack, Surrey was sounding like a very good idea.

If he was thinking only about himself.

As Georgina rapidly cycled through the checklist of things that could go wrong, plastic surgery began to seem like a good idea. Jack already had a face that blended in with an army of Slavic criminals. That was actually pretty insulting.

“Getting out of town is doable,” he said, trying to sneak a peek at what action her two phones were getting. He was all-too-desperate for news of the outside world. Interpol, his family, her family, who’d won the latest Great British Bake-Off. What Harry and Meghan were upto, even.

“The words ‘I’m under orders from Mr. Makarovich’ have become my passport to anyplace.” Giving Violet a wide berth for the time being was also a smart idea. He didn’t think his strait-laced colleague would appreciate the details of that encounter. “You got any suggestions for places to hide out, Georgie? I could do the legwork on someone you’ve wanted to keep an eye on. The further away from Ooty’s London, the better.”

She perks up at the word doable. Though rushing into anything was deadly, she felt panic quickly encroaching. Asking him to move for the time being would never be a rash decision, within minutes of this very conversation she could have a safe house ready and waiting for him.

“That’s good, flexibility is good,” she says before unlocking her phone once more. With the frenetic energy of teenager she tapped away at the digital keys of her work phone. Their chief often left Georgina unanswered, so she was ditching the chain of command in lieu of a prompt and dependable response.

Maybe Filipp had miscalculated in his knee-jerk need to avoid the problem. Geneva—hell, even Berlin—was too far. He’d been hoping to lie low in Tottenham for a while, or maybe skulk in the suburbs. His hopping on a plane to a Brexit-unfriendly country was going to piss of...

Makarovich?

Oh, you colossal idiot.

Jack took a deep, quick breath, steadying himself by reaching across the table to put a stalling hand over Georgina’s phone. “Hold on a second.” God, her phone was hot as a torch. Or maybe it was his palm getting clammy. “Slow down. Pulling me out completely is not good.”

Yes, it is.

You want out. You’ve wanted out for years.

“No kidding,” said Filipp, trailing off in amazement at the sight that had just casually waltzed past them. “Did you—” He pointed weakly at the rapidly disappearing man, unable to put together the right words that wasn’t uncontrollable laughter. “You saw that, right? Guy just decides to ditch his clothes and stroll down from the hotel in a shower gown?”

Please, he prayed to God and all the angels up there, let that not be his contact. He’d crack a rib from trying to keep a straight face from doing business with someone who was getting his balls tickled by a nice breeze during the whole process. He was incredibly glad for the protective layer of his tracksuit over everything else he wore. “Or maybe he’s got the right idea. No such thing as too little clothes.”

And he was incredibly wary of heading for the natatorium with the man’s robes still puddled outside the doors.

Even less if Violet was there to catch him at it.

“Fever Pitch,” was what he settled on. “Man watches a lot of football. Sports movie.” Old movie, so he could be forgiven for not remembering much. “There’s some comic book thing playing in the theatre. And also that war movie, but you need to pass for eighteen to watch that one.”

She felt his eyes watching her through the rear-view mirror. Checking to see if I haven’t jumped out the window yet, eh Filya? But she didn’t bother, because then he might feel the need to say why he was actually looking at her - the coke - and she preferred to think he was just looking.

He kept his face straight and eyes on the road as she gave the back of the driver’s seat a hearty kick. A good sign that she was still alive.

Filipp tried to look interested through the spiel about the dead saint—in fairness, cool story—but he wasn’t here for the book club discussion. He was here to find out why Patrick knew so much about criminals. To that end, it was maybe not productive to accidentally-on-purpose kick Patrick under the table but whoops. His foot had slipped.

“I’m more interested in the kind of bad rap we’re talking about here,” said Filipp, acting like he hadn’t noticed. “Sure in real life we got the diddlers and the inquisitiors and the guys who think gays should burn in hell—“ His tone of voice left little doubt which side he stood on. He was Russian, do the math. “Petty things, basically. But in the books, they’re trying to burn hunchbacks and steal the Grail and… it’s so large scale, you know? Why do you think that is, Father?” He was smiling as he looked Patrick directly in the eye. “You think that’s some kind of wish fulfilment scenario?”

Filipp’s foot makes contact with Patrick’s shin and he jumps higher than he thought he ever could, from the sitting position. Clearly, he isn’t as relaxed as he’s pretending to be. He makes an attempt to play it off, crossing his left leg over the right, and he prays to God– for the first time in a while– the other doesn’t notice. It was an accident, he thinks to himself. Get it the fuck together. He laces his fingers together and rests them on his knee.

Patrick is used to abstract questions, being a priest and all. He’s lost count of how many times he’s talked his way around answering questions like what does it all mean and why us, but again, he hadn’t pegged Filipp as the kind of person to care about their answers. Two strikes for Father Grace, apparently.

The grin was purely involuntary and all genuineness accidental. Filipp nearly coughed on a mouthful of smoke.

“You shouldn’t call me Filya so much,” he said, ashing the cigarette into a nearby plant. “People will get the wrong idea.”

Like maybe he had something to do with the scar that blemished the otherwise picture-perfect landscape of Violet’s midriff. The very thought made him wince. Bullets left marks of a good kind; motherhood, not so much.

“They may think we’re friends who skulk together after midnight. On purpose, even.”

Violet couldn’t help but laugh. “Fair enough, Mr. Sokolov.” Forgot this happened, he had called out as he had left her home. This encounter was proving to be more cordial (if not for the ogling) but less entertaining than their last, perhaps because of their sobriety.

Just then, a burly man in a bathrobe appeared, walking briskly past the two of them without so much as a glance in their directions

After a demanding text to her burner phone, a thick manila envelope in hand, and one flight back to the continent from the States, and Riv’s found herself over in Germany. Unfortunately, she’d rather be literally anywhere else. Not that she hated a short break from the sharp stench of cleaning supplies– and international flights still gave out fun little pillows and blankets in economy, after all– but of course, the mob would make her hand off some surely-sketchy documents in a place called the High Roller. The fuckers. 

As soon as she’s handed off the envelope to its intended recipient, her eyes instinctively dart over in the direction of the shadowy poker tables. “Bitch, don’t do it,” she murmurs to herself. Good thing that three of the club’s patrons seem to be having some kind of knife fight blocking the way between her and the cards– well two patrons with knives, and one in there wailing away with seemingly just their fists. Perfect. As long as they keep it up, she won’t be tempted to wander over. Instead, she heads over to the bar, because getting drunk as hell before her flight home in a few hours is clearly the best alternative solution. 

Georgina’s faux-apologetic tone made Jack let out such a loud laugh that even the barista looked around. Somewhat sheepishly, he slunk to a table near the back of the café. It broke their line of sight of the laundromat but better some petty larceny than being recognised by a passer-by. Come in for a peppermint mocha, leave with a WTF expression on their face.

Her prompting made the encounter with Ooty Featherstonhaugh flashed past his eyes like a Kodak reel. Tone it down for Georgina, avoid a disaster, or tell the full story?

“I’m not going to discuss how Zenit Saint Petersburg is doing with that idiot, forget Pushkin,” he began, attempting the easy question first. “Of course, he went to Harrow and Oxford, so we’re talking about an idiot who’s really well-versed in Pushkin. But for the idea of tapping him to turn on his wife… it’s too slippery. He’s like a wet codfish. He looked devoted to that woman. All yes, dear and very well, dear.”

He wondered, briefly, if Georgina enjoyed Monty Python. What she did when she wasn’t chasing monsters.

“And I’m not saying I’ve ‘been made’ or whatever you Americans say.” Hands flat on the table, he leaned forward in his seat, trying to impress it as deeply as possible. “Everything’s fine, Georgie. I’m still in the clear. But, and this is a very small but here, I went to the same school as Ooty. Alumnus meets, overlapping years, the club of posh public school gits who also go to Oxford. Given a chance, he’s going to remember.” There it was, that uneasiness pulsing through Jack’s veins like sludge. “But it’s too early to pull me out. I’ve got fuck-all nothing on Makarovich or the Triumvirate. You have to keep an eye on Ooty, Georgie. He is not going to be the reason this operation goes up in flames.”

For someone who’s entire life hinged on not blowing his cover, he was suspiciously good at being paid attention in a crowd. Though can’t hide the gracious smile that creeps upon her face at the sheer boisterousness of his laugh. She follows him to their hidden corner, promptly setting a timer on her phone in an effort to combat a potential laundry heist. 

She listens intently as she would on a real meeting. Though if it were, there’s no way she would have chosen the most conspicuous location of inside a coffee shop…she would have at least done it outside.  She bites her lip and nods. “Okay I trust your judgement, both about his analytical capabilities and devotion to his wife,” The point was dead for now but that didn’t mean she’d stop pushing for an in with the armoury.

“Spotted, compromised, exposed—” she interrupted with a patriotic raise of her finger before leaning further back into her seat maintaining the distance between them. She lets the silence rest uneasy in the air for a beat, eyes training on his features as if the right answer was written across his forehead. “Plastic surgery,” she says staunchly, hoping to slice through the mounting tension with an ill-timed joke. 

“Getting out of town is doable,” he said, trying to sneak a peek at what action her two phones were getting. He was all-too-desperate for news of the outside world. Interpol, his family, her family, who’d won the latest Great British Bake-Off. What Harry and Meghan were upto, even.

Sometimes she wondered if she was actually as good at hiding it as she thought, or if maybe he just didn’t care. She knew her father would care, even though that was quite hypocritical of him, but one didn’t say thinks like that to Aleksei Makarovich, not even his daughter. So it was best for everyone if they all pretended not to know.

It was working, her fear and sadness replaced by a familiar chemical buoyancy. How lovely to watch the shadows of passing cars and buildings dance across the roof of the car. Eleanor almost forgot to pay attention to the answer to her questions. He took too long a pause before finishing, and she knew he was searching for a good lie.

(She did not want to think about how often he lied to her, about how often any of them lied. It would only hurt her more.)

“Hmmm, maybe. I don’t know.” Nellie paused, chewing on her bottom lip. Did she want to see a movie? It could be almost normal maybe, a quiet dark theater and two hours spent in someone else’s head. She might pick something scary, if just to grab his arm when she was inevitably frightened. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Filipp had no idea. It was like he’d forgotten every movie he’d ever watched. What was he supposed to say—Donnie Brasco? Eastern Promises, for some local flavour. He glanced into the mirror again to make sure that Eleanor was still breathing. His boss—name any of them—would be a little upset otherwise.

“How considerate you are, Filya,” Violet replied, dryly. Truthfully, she didn’t think her lungs were ever up to it (was anyone’s?) — she had smoked in her teens and early twenties, gave it up when she got pregnant, and now found the smell absolutely repulsive. It was a fact of life whilst dealing with the Russians, though. She shrugged. “The gym’s nice and empty. It’s a good time to work out without some bloke salivating over my sports bra.” She gave him a pointed look. “Fancy running into you here.”

The grin was purely involuntary and all genuineness accidental. Filipp nearly coughed on a mouthful of smoke.

“You shouldn’t call me Filya so much,” he said, ashing the cigarette into a nearby plant. “People will get the wrong idea.”

Like maybe he had something to do with the scar that blemished the otherwise picture-perfect landscape of Violet’s midriff. The very thought made him wince. Bullets left marks of a good kind; motherhood, not so much.

Violet, unimpressed, got bored and had the urge to leave as he took his time ogling her. But that would leave the question of what he was lurking around here for. Granted, he had seemed genuinely surprised to see her, so she doubted it had anything to do with her. “So you aren’t considering going to the gym,” she said, innocently. “What are you doing?”

Skulking mostly. For criminals. Other criminals. The irony didn’t escape Filipp. He shrugged, lowering the obnoxiousness a notch. He even stood up straighter like a real person.