xp_logs | Doug and Remy: Spy Games

Doug and Remy go to the field to do a pickup.

"Welcome to Pulkovo Airport." Remy said as Doug came down through security and into the terminal itself. The lanky Cajun had been leaning against one of the posts, reading a St. Petersburg newspaper and quietly watching the flow of traffic back and forth. He tucked it neatly under one arm and walked down through the terminal towards the parking lot, swirling Doug along in his wake. When they reached the rental car, Remy popped the truck and turned back to his younger coworker.

"Remy know dat you been in Russia before, but dis is a little different den last time. We're going to have to rotate you through de field more, so you getting one of Marie-Ange's pickups. It's not dat different den most of the deaddrops dat you been working, or some of de meets." LeBeau reached into the trunk and pulled out a a small leather notecase, zipped up along the one side. "I might have been identified by de man's boss back in my Gambit days, otherwise I'd take de lead. But we can't take dat chance."

Doug blinked, doing his best to keep his face blank. He'd gotten used to LeBeau's crankiness, but the fact that he was being trusted to take over for him was a little heady. Doug was no longer a stranger to the field, but his role and his powers had made him most useful on the electronic side of their intelligence net. However, there were some things that needed a person directly involved, and Doug had learned the ropes and pulled his weight with everyone else. Still, at the mention of 'Gambit', he came back to earth, somewhat thankful for the reminder that Remy would probably always know more than him about the ins and outs of their work. "Okay," he replied. "Where do we start?"

LeBeau pointed at the case. "One of our contacts inside a Russian criminal network has decided dat enough is enough. He's downloaded all the information dat he can get his hands on, and is waiting for us to pick him up and deliver him to de airport safely. We've already arranged for a new identity, and he's skimmed enough money to disappear for good. I need you to make de contact wit' him, and get him to de airport. He'll be watched, so you'll have to blend in seamlessly when you make the meet, so his handlers don't get tipped off until you already almost at de airport."

"Blend in," Doug repeated. "Got it." Thankfully, that played to his strengths, and it wouldn't be as complicated as it would in someplace like China or Kenya, where the simple matter of Doug's skin tone would be fighting against his ability to look like he belonged.

"What all's in the case?" he asked, examining it before picking it up.

"Figured you might want to know what he looks like before showing up. Dere's a new passport and travel documents for him, tickets, keys to a rental car and some information about de location and maps of de area and back to de airport." Remy said. "Keep you cellphone close. I'll be at our usual number for Russia keeping track. Call me once you've got him."

Doug unzipped the case and took a look at the contact he was to pick up, committing the face to memory as he examined the maps. He frowned in concentration, marshalling his thoughts. First order of business was to pick up a few items that would help him disappear in a crowd, look like just another tourist or local. If he needed to shake a tail, he'd need to be able to change his appearance quickly. He flipped to the back of the notecase, where several ruble notes peeked out. Thank god, no ridiculous mustache. But he realized that was probably a measure of Remy's trust in him. The mustache was a prank, what he was about to go out and do was business. He took a quick look at his watch, and nodded. "Gotcha, boss." He turned and headed for a newsstand, doing his best to disappear into the crowd.

***

Doug arrives for the meetup, and things don't go according to plan.

Gennady Popov asked himself for the hundredth time if he'd made the right decision. Skimming money and running wasn't a unique method of retirement for Russian criminals, but he was trying to do so from Sergei Fyodorov, the so called Chechen Scourge. He was called that because wherever his unit went during the war, people died by the hundreds. Fyodorov had become a business man after the army, mostly drugs, guns, and girls, which he then pushed the profits into large casinos and secret weapons development trades. He loved the profit margin on mutants, which is what had been the key to Gennady's divided loyalties. He had been a mid-level programmer of financial software, and was an accountant. Those two traits had turned into an offer of more cash than he'd see in ten years to work for Fyodorov, managing the complex banking arrangements and hidden accounts. But after a while, he began to see the human cost behind the numbers, especially in the mutants moved through like slaves. His sister had been a mutant, and even though he hadn't seen her in seven years, since she moved to London, he couldn't help seeing her face on every poor 'package' that they sold. That was why he'd betrayed his monsterous employer.

And now, he was waiting on a street corner, hoping that his shadowy friends would make good on their promise to get him out.

"~Good evening, Mister Popov,~" Doug said conversationally as he sidled up next to the Russian contact and rubbed his hands together. A quick investment in coat, hat, and a few other accessories, and he looked like any other Russian working-class citizen. He certainly sounded like one, his accent for the most part Muscovite with a touch of Siberian farmboy in it. "~I understand you desire a change in environment?~" he asked.

"~Something warm, in a better neighbourhood for a start.~" Popov said, letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. There were many stories about victims of betrayal; people who had spied on the state and then been abandoned when their usefulness was up by the agencies of the West. It was transparent propaganda, but that did not mean it wasn't effective, and Gennedy had grown up hearing it.

"~That can be arranged. It is why I'm here,~" Doug replied. He could see the skittishness of Popov's body language, a nervousness, the knowledge that he was in a dangerous situation. But there was also a blind, desperate trust in Doug, the fear of a man who wanted out but was not sure his associates would let him leave.

"~Good. Fyodorov's been suspicious about some transactions for weeks now. I've scattered them, so it looks like numerous men could be involved, but it won't take him long to unraval it enough to want to ask me some questions. Hard. We should go.~" While the street seemed to hold no threats, each figure became a hitman in Popov's mind. "~Yes, now.~"

"~Calmly, calmly,~" Doug instructed Popov. There was nothing more drawing to the eye than someone nervous, moving at unusual speeds. He fished out his cell phone and thumbed a few buttons. At the curt greeting on the other end, he spoke brightly and somewhat boisterously. "~Ah, Nikolai! How are things? Gennady and I were in the area, and thought we might stop by for dinner. You know, drink too much, tell each other lies...~"

"~I have other guests right now, Dimitri, but I'm sure that they'd love to see you.~" The words were slightly chilling. It meant that Popav's absence had been noted, and Fyodorov's men were looking for Popov. The code said to expediate the mission, meaning that Doug was now operating under their shortest possible timeline. Remy used to talk about the days before concealable cell phones, when they used beepers with LCD screens, and each operative dreaded seeing 'GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT' run across the grey surface in the midst of a job. That was exactly what Ramsey had just received. "~I'll put out another bottle. See you soon.~"

The line went dead.

Doug stowed the phone in his pocket, his mind racing. The particular phrase Remy had used screamed urgency, and there was no way of knowing how close Fyodorov's men might be. He flashed through options in his head, discarding most as unworkable. The more compassionate part of him considered giving Popov his new papers and giving him some modicum of a chance at escaping, but a colder calculus told Doug just how much information could be gleaned by a skilled operative from those false papers. And that wasn't even accounting for what a mutant like Adrienne Frost could do with them.

The biggest problem was that there was no graceful way to get away from Popov. They were at a bus stop, it wasn't as though he could excuse himself to a bathroom. On top of which, as skittish and paranoid as Popov clearly was feeling at the moment, he doubted the other man would agree to any sort of separation.

And so he went the most expeditious route. He hooked one foot around Popov's ankle, lowered his shoulder, and shoved the Russian out into the road, turning and walking briskly away even before the other man hit the ground.

Popov sprawled into the street, taking a moment to shake himself off before having to scrabble back to the sidewalk to avoid the traffic, which barely slowed to serve around him. Heart racing, he leaned on the post by the kiosk for a moment. "~I must have-~" He looked around in sudden shock. The blond man had disappeared. Popov thought he caught a glimpse of him in the crowd, but it disappeared as fast as it had emerged. The Russian looked around, almost comically out of place. It was then that the car pulled up, and a man stepped from the passenger's seat.

"~Hello Gennady. Mister Fyodorov would like to have a word with you.~" There was no menace in the simple request. There didn't need to be. Popov's face changed from pale white, sagging to a worn, bruised grey.

"~Yes. Yes, of course. I was just on my way to- it doesn't matter." He looked around the crowd for another moment, before quietly climbing into the back of the car.

---

Doug and Remy meet up and go over the situation.

Doug toyed with a shot glass of vodka as he sat in the anonymous bar that was the fallback rendezvous point with Remy. He ran through the earlier events in his mind, searching for something he could have done differently.

LeBeau's entrance was marked only by holding up a couple of fingers as he slid into the seat across from Doug. The bar had been chosen for three reasons; it was dark, the waitstaff knew not to listen in, and it was mostly used by members of the Moscow Militia, who met their contacts, informants and snitches in relative privacy.

"Tell me there's absolutely nothing we could have done differently." He hadn't looked back or waited around, but Doug knew in a bone-deep way that Popov had to already be dead.

"Dere's plenty of things dat we could have done differently. Dat's not de point. You make de plan dat makes de most sense at de time, make de most logical changes on de ground when things start developing, and find out what happens." Remy accepted a pair of glasses, sliding the second over to Doug. "Fyodorov must have already been watching Popov. He had men at de airport too fast to have been just reacting."

Doug grunted and tossed his shot back. "That's not good. Do we need to worry about being burned?" He was doing his best to compartmentalize by thinking about whether there might be any immediate danger to them now.

"Non. Popov was handled through de network. De most he could do is finger a couple of dead drops and cutouts, all of which have already been cancelled."

"That's good." It wasn't good that a man was likely now dead, but it was at least good that they weren't going to be immediately following him. "So what's next, then?"

"We go home. Popov's dead, so we'll need to find another way to keep tabs on Fyodorov's organization."