OOM: 2011, Sochi Harbour

[redintheledger]

This is what Agent Natasha K. Romanoff should be doing, if she was following medical advice: taking it easy, and trying not to move too much. Near-drownings aren't the kind of thing one shrugs off, even with the dose of Soviet Mad Science making her body tougher than it should be.

This is what she is actually doing: sitting on the couch in a hotel lobby, wearing a black cocktail dress, a nice pair of high heels with secure straps, and matching bracelets that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s R&D department is very proud of. Normally, she'd be standing in order to see her contact better, but her heart has only recently gone back to its normal beat. She'd prefer not to risk it. Instead, she watches the crowd as she waits for Markov.

Agent Gennady Grigoryevich Markov isn't a man who stands out from the crowd – a useful trait in a spy currently undercover as a bodyguard. He's older than she appears, but not too much so; someone like her could be a date to a party without many eyebrows being raised. And while there's always the possibility of her being a mistaken for an escort, it's not necessarily a downside.

He spots her and smiles, and it even looks genuine.

(It should – S.H.I.E.L.D. do not employ people who are bad at their jobs.)

“Alessa,” Markov says warmly, kissing her cheek. She smiles back up at him.

“Do we have time for pre-party drinks?”

“Oh, I think so. Right this way, darling.”

– –

Markov leans against a desk, arms folded across his chest as he stares at her flatly. She – having taken the armchair – stares back, arching her eyebrows.

“Is there a problem I should be aware about?” she asks finally. “Because we should get going-”

“I could say no.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is my operation,” Markov says. “I've been working for Klementiev for five years. You, Romanova, have a habit of being really fucking flashy. I don't need flashy around here.”

She smiles, slightly. Very slightly. “Are you obstructing the access to a stolen and highly dangerous piece of tech that you know is being sold under your nose? Even after you'd confirmed compliance with a Level Six agent, as according to your mission specifications should this kind of event arise?”

Markov snorts, shaking his head slightly. “Just don't kill anyone.”

“Not unless I have to.”

“And who decides that?”

Her voice precise, “Control does. Don't worry, Markov, I have a leash.”

She shouldn't have said that, and Markov smiles at her.

“I remember what you did in Bulgaria, Romanova. My first year in the field, and you know? For the fifteen years since then, I've worked to make sure that people who do what you did are put. Away.”

Very deliberately, the Black Widow raises an eyebrow and stares at him.

“If you are questioning the circumstances of my employment, I suggest you take it up with the boss,” she says, tone clinical. “But we have an operation to complete, so, if you've stopped being unprofessional...”

Markov stares back.

The words you owe me from that little incident in Belushya Gubaare in her mouth, but she waits. People owing her favours is always useful; if Coulson's already talked to him, then she sees no reason in wasting that needlessly.

But if she has to use the favour, she will. There is a mission to be done.

And Lin and Isaacs deserve to have this thing completed.

Finally, just as Romanoff starts to move her tongue in order to speak, Markov drops his gaze. He tries to hide it by pushing himself off the desk with muttered, “my car's downstairs,” but it's a capitulations, and they both know it.

It doesn't mean the matter is settled, because as they exit the room, Markov leans in close.

“Watch your back, agent,” he says. “Everyone else is going to.”

For a moment, she wishes that she hadn't defected, that it was still the Cold War and the rules of conduct she'd grown up with. But then Markov wouldn't be worth the bullets it'd take to shoot him, and she was better than that now.

And sometimes, writing people up was far more satisfying.

– –

Klementiev's beloved yacht, the Vasilisa, looks like any other kind of luxury vessel on the outside. On the inside it looks...well, like any other kind of gaudy, more-money-than-style luxury yacht. Still, Klementiev himself presents a neater figure than his former colleague, Fjodorov, and he limits himself to a very quick once-over as Markov introduces them.

Markov himself shows none of the attitude he had back in the hotel. Outwardly, he's every bit the slightly awkward boyfriend, not quite sure what to do with his girl now that she's actually around a space where he should be working. Underneath, it's pure professionalism.

“Two o'clock,” Markov says quietly, “Mohammed Yavari, owns a Tehran chain of internet cafes.”

Internet cafes, here. Now.

“VAJA or freelance?” she asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder and smiling like he's telling her a joke.

He laughs quietly to cover his words. “Former.” Then, a little louder, “I'll circle around while you go explore.”

“Got yourself a deal,” Romanoff says in Alessa Rambaudi's Swiss accent and, with a grin like she can't help herself, she turns, and moves through the crowd.

It takes time to reach the bottom level of the yacht, and during one conversation on her way down, she really couldn't help that little comment about how she thought yachts were one-cabined things used in races. The starlet gave her a slightly scornful look, but Alessa is a translator; it doesn't hurt her cover.

And it's the truth; yachts shouldn't be this big.

(God, she hates dealing with the rich.)

Fortunately, with obscene wealth comes good lighting, and Romanoff easily finds the door Markov told her the original thief would be in. Cautiously, she slips into the room.

“When is this fucking deal happening?” The speaker is American, young, male, and underneath the anger in his voice are a lot of nerves. One Robert Busuttil, alive and well.

She smiles, and tucks her hands behind her back, shifting her weight to tilt her hips. “What's the hurry, handsome,” she answers in English, keeping her voice languid and accented with Russian. “They've sent me to make your stay, um, how do you say, better?”

“-oh.”

Busuttil is easy. She slides onto his lap, and as he kisses her neck, she brings up her right bracelet to press against his skin. The tranquilizer doesn't work as fast as the movies suggest, but it's barely any time before Busutill is lying unconscious across the bed.

The briefcase containing the stolen software is in the bottom drawer of the bedside table, and the lock is sophisticated, she'll give it that much. It takes her longer than she'd like to bypass it, but bypass it she does.

The encrypted code on the computer chip, she can't make out; Stark could, given it was his originally, but Romanoff transfers it via her phone straight to SHIELD databases. She'd trust SHIELD over Stark any day. Transfer complete, she adds a tracker program to the chip just in case, slips it into her hollowed out necklace, and goes to rendezvous with Markov. They'd agreed on the bottom most deck, the area at the back where – if the boat were still – people could step off into the water. And, as agreed, Markov is there.

He's not alone.

“There you go again,” Sofia says cheerfully. “Doing my work for me. Don't expect to share in the fee. Starodoub's people know to shoot me on sight, so I had to stay in the shadows. But you! You're the best friend a girl ever had.”

In the bad light in this area of the yacht, Romanoff can't see the weapon that Sofia had trained on Markov, but she knows there is one. Betraying SHIELD, no matter how he felt about individual agents, runs entirely counter to his being.

“Let him go, Sofia.”

“Of course!” Sofia smiles, but it's annoyed. Maybe, Romanoff thinks, she shouldn't have sound so damn tired. “But you know what I want firs-.”

“Don't,” Markov interrupts. “Don't do it.”

Romanoff looks at him, and then at Sofia. “It's fine. It's not worth anymore lives,” she says, and takes the chip out of her necklace to hand over.

“Agreed,” Sofia says. “It's certainly not worth his.”

The shot is damn near silent.

There's a spray of blood, and Markov topples back into the sea. Romanoff doesn't even think about it – she runs forward the last few steps, and dives in after him.

Not that she finds him. It's night, and she knew as soon as she dived that he was probably dead. Add a moving vessel that he fell off, and the amount of muscle on his frame, and he'd probably sunk beyond her reach before she hit the water.

Kicking her way to the surface, she doesn't waste her air on swearing; the yacht continues on its course, trailing techno-music and light in its wake, and she just swims back into the darkness. And while she can't see her, nothing will convince her that Sofia isn't standing on the lower deck, waving. It'd be cinematic. And so far, Sofia has done nothing to shake her suspicion that the girl is playing a movie in her head.

Keeping her curses to herself, Romanoff hits the tracker so Coulson can find her, and treads water.

Unprofessional or not, she was going to feel much, much better once Sofia was in a body bag.