From Russia With... [Gwen x Methos]

[Gwendolyn]

"Valerie, come on, don't be such a tight ass," Alicia groaned, pulling her friend along the sidewalk.

"Yeah, it'll be fun!" Erin added as the three girls ran across the road, laughing as a guy riding a moped cursed at them angrily in rapid Russian. "Sorry!" Erin called, insincerely.

"I dunno, you guys... I mean, you know what they say about these things," Valerie replied uncertainly, and yet she continued to follow her two friends toward the building - it was a large, beautiful hotel, not as luxurious as they one they were staying at in the heart of St. Petersburg, but still high-end and obviously expensive.

"Valerie," Alicia stopped, and looked her best friend in the eyes, "those guys gave us this flier," she held up the paper, which said FORD MODELS - FREE PHOTOSHOOTS SATURDAY ONLY 3-6 PM. "Hans, Peter and Sven - um, you know, those totally hot models we met at the cafe? Hans said they're represented by Ford Models, and that we'd do awesome in the business? Is any of this ringing a bell?"

"Yeah, yeah," Valerie muttered as they entered the tall, intricate front doors of the hotel.

"C'mon, Val, don't be like that," Erin said with a frown. "They're legit! Look, we'll just go in, get a few pictures taken, and leave, alright? Just some harmless fun."

"We get to play dress up and get our picture taken for free. I thought you'd be all over this!" Alicia added.

"Well..." Valerie looked into the hopeful eyes of her friends and finally broke down, saying with a little laugh, "Alright, alright! Just a few pictures, then we're leaving!" Erin and Alicia both giggled excitedly, and all three girls walked to the front desk, but before they reached the receptionist, they were hailed by the three young men they'd met the other day, who were standing near the elevator.

"Ooh, there they are!" Alicia whispered as they walked over to the men. She smoothed the front of her sweater and quickly adjusted her breasts so that they were on clear display in her low cut shirt.

"Wow, real subtle, Alicia!" Valerie teased.

"We are pleased for you to be here," the dark-haired one, Peter, said. "Please be following us. The studio is upstairs." He and the other men led the girls into the elevator. They got out on the sixteenth floor, and from there went into a luxurious, deluxe suite, which was filled with racks of beautiful designer clothes, a camera and photoshoot set-up, a mini-bar, leather couches, a flat screen television, and what appeared to be a very large bathroom.

"This is amazing!" Erin said, looking around with awe.

"Where's the photographer? The sylists?" Valerie asked, suddenly feeling a little wary.

"They went out for lunch," Sven answered. "Will be back very soon."

"Would you like something to drink?" Hans asked, and Erin and Alicia both nodded immediately. Hans looked at Peter, and said something to him in Russian. Peter went to the bar and mixed three fruity, colorful cocktails for the girls. The other two took theirs with smiles and laughs, and sat down on the sofa together to sip their drinks, but Valerie politely refused.

"No thank you," she said, shaking her head.

"Help mind?" Peter suggested, then furrowed his brow. He was the one who obviously had the most trouble with English. "How you say, nerves? Loosen up before big photoshoot?"

Valerie sighed and took the glass from him. "Thanks," she said, and took a sip from it. It was surprisingly good. She took another drink.

"Something about Western woman is very beautiful," Peter said quietly, reaching out to touch Valerie's face. She blushed and smiled a little. "When I saw you in restaurant, I knew," he said, nodding. "I knew you should be model. Picture everywhere for men to see, and want. Even more than your friends. They are in your shadow."

Valerie's blush deepened, and she took another gulp of her drink, finishing it off. "I - thank you," she said, and it might have been the alcohol now coursing through her system, but the feeling of his hand on her cheek was nothing less than intoxicating. Boys had told her she was pretty before, but it never really meant anything to her. She'd had boyfriends, but never anything serious; she wasn't looking for a serious relationship right now. She was still young. But Peter - Peter who was tall, dark, unbelievably handsome, who was paying her all these compliments, whose accent was just adorable...

"I get you new drink?" Peter offered, taking her glass from her.

"Oh, uh - yeah, sure, thanks," Valerie said, a little flustered. Peter brought her another drink. Then another. And another. By the time the two photographers and their crew arrived, Valerie was pretty far gone, as were Erin and Alicia. It wasn't like being drunk, though - it was better than that. Whereas alcohol normally put her in a haze, now, it was the opposite: she felt every sensation with alarming acuity.

"We will do the shoots separately, for better effect," said one of the photographers, who was a burly man of about forty with a head of thick dark hair that was greying at the temples. "You," he pointed at Erin, "in the bathroom." One of the stylists ushered an almost fall-down drunk Erin toward the enormous bathroom. "You, stay here," he said to Alicia. "And you, in the master bedroom," he dictated. Peter smiled down at Valerie as he guided her toward the bedroom. The photographer followed them.

"Don't I need a stylist? I want some pretty clothes!" Valerie said dreamily.

"Clothes you have are fine," Peter assured her. "But - less, please. Racy photos very big right now."

"Yeah, like Maxim or GQ!" Valerie exclaimed, and Peter just laughed and nodded. She didn't protest as Peter helped her peel off her sweater, then her undershirt, and finally her jeans and shoes, which left her in nothing but her white bra and panties. She was getting less and less coordinated, and twice she nearly fell down, but Peter caught her. "What should I do?" she asked.

"On the bed," the photographer said from behind his camera. Valerie sat down and scooted back on the covers. Only then did she notice that Peter had stripped to just his jeans and was crawling on the bed with her. "Are you posing with me?" she asked blearily.

"Da," Peter affirmed. "Sexy photoshoot. Okay?" Valerie just nodded, honestly, too hammered to care. Peter kissed her cheek, then her neck, and rested his hand on her thigh. The camera flashed again and again, and Valerie was beginning to feel rather nauseous. She tried to push Peter away from her so that she could get up and go to the bathroom, but her weak movements didn't affect him, and he just continued kissing and touching her, one of his hands now on her breast. More camera flashes. "I don't feel very well," she murmured, but her voice sounded distant and foreign even to her own ears. Her head was pounding agonizingly. "Peter, please..." She struggled again - now, the room was spinning, and her vision was blurring at the edges. "Peter, I..."

"Is okay," Peter whispered in her ear, and kissed the skin there. "We take care of you..."

"No, no, I don't... stop..." Valerie whined, pushing at Peter again in vain, but he was much larger than her and pinned her to the mattress easily. She tried to speak again, but her voice died in her throat; a moment later, everything went black, as she slipped into sweet unconscious.

Thirteen Hours Later

Alicia opened her eyes, slowly, and looked around. She was back in their hotel room, and Erin was asleep on the opposite bed. But Valerie's bed was empty. Despite the ache in her limbs, Alicia dragged herself out of bed. "Valerie?" she croaked. "Val? Are you in the bathroom?" With much difficulty, she walked across the room, to the bathroom. Still no sign of Valerie. She checked the other rooms - called the hotel lobby - but Valerie was nowhere to be found. Apparently, Erin and Alicia had been brought home by some men last night, but Valerie had not been with them. Alicia was starting to panic. Damn it, Valerie was the daughter of a U.N. Ambassador, shouldn't she be watched more closely? Shouldn't there be some damn security?!

Alicia woke Erin up, and together they tried to piece together exactly what happened last night, then they made the toughest phone call of their life: They called Roger Hughes to tell him his daughter was missing.

Little did they know that Valerie could be very easily found, if they only checked a popular Russian "companions" website, which had recently featured the photos taken of Valerie with Peter last night. They were calling her 'Pretty Petra' and while they hadn't yet sold her out, they were very confident that she would become an immensely profitable addition to their business... That is, unless Roger Hughes could come up with ten million dollars. The next morning - the second day Valerie had been reported missing - Mr. Hughes received an envelope containing some of the racy photos of his daughter, and a note, explaining to him that unless he wired ten million to a man named "Leo Petrovicz" - he would never see his daughter again.

Roger took a deep breath. He put the photos back in the envelope - the sight of them was making him physically sick - and picked up the phone, to call the only people he knew could help him now.

 

[Methos]

The gentle lap of the ocean lapped up across a sandy beach, while the rays of the sun in all their brilliance beat down upon the sea side locality. Beyond the sand a rather sprawling white walled villa with distinctive red tile roofing was seen. A brick patio surrounded with vines, trees and shrubbery could be seen. If one looked more closely at the table a small bucket of ice was seen upon it, a small bowl of olives, a bottle of Smirnoff, a smaller one of Vermouth and a martini glass beside it.

From the table the ring of a cell phone would interrupt the relative calm of the surrounding. The phone rang with a distinctive chime and indeed it proved rather insistent as being ignored for a period of over five minutes did not cause its ringing to halt. From the beach a dripping figure soon approached the phone and lifted it upwards “Yes?”

“Where am I? Greece. What am I doing here – a brunette not that I how that’s anyone’s business but mine.” A pause followed as he idly noted “I can’t really be missing if you’re talking to me right now can I? Yes, yes, there is always an emergency. Russia? Arrange a plane then, four hours. Yes, four hours I have something to take care of before I go.” Whatever protestations the voice on the other side of the phone offered were dismissed by the cell phone being closed and then set back down upon the table.

A large hand retrieved the glass from the table and it was brought to his lips and tilted back as he took a rather deep swallow from it. Thereafter, he padded towards the patio doors of the villa and stepped inside. Rivulets of water dripped over a tanned and rather muscular form as he rounded a corner to the bedroom. There blue-gray eyes fixed upon the sprawled form of a woman clad only in a bed sheet. Her head turned towards him, with dark curling spilling over the pillow where her head had been resting, she murmured “James?” His hand soon came to her cheek and his head leaned in to her own, his mouth pressing to her own as he murmured “I’m afraid I haven’t much time…”


Several hours later he arrived at the airport. He strode rather swiftly through the private charter area until a darkly clad man remarked “Mister Bond …right this way.” He had very much the appearance of a man whom had arrived at his destination in a hurry - his hair being disheveled, his tie askew and one cuff of his shirt undone. Yet none of that seemed to impact upon an almost invincible aura of confidence about him. Although one might speculate that finely tailored garb and classically handsome features allowed the man to look more than passable whatever his preparations. A roguish smile graced his lips as soon he found himself seated in a rather luxurious leather chair with a dossier opened upon a table beside him.

A natural curiosity was displayed in the man’s eyes as he read through the details as to what was diverting him from his Mediterranean distractions and back to the world of danger that he occupied. A kidnapping, normally not really his sort of problem, however, admittedly few were as well acquainted with Russia as he. A more detailed perusal soon revealed the reasons for his involvement aside from his knowledge of Tolstoy, borscht and vodka.
Evidently the reason was politics, the British Ambassador to the UN’s daughter had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. The Ambassador was of course an old friend of the Prime Minister and a number of other members of the current government. A wry smile graced his lips as he idly noted “Someone demanded the best man available, and they got me.” Some part of him found this flattering although on another it was rather annoying as this was a tawdry errand compared to his usual beat of foiling terrorists and secretive organizations with sinister ends. The stewardess had brought him another martini and had assured him that it had been shaken, not stirred. Thus he read through the reports before him with a drink in hand.

He really hadn’t been left with many leads, nor a great deal of time. Presumably time being of the essence was why M had been her hectoring and maternal self. Although he was rather sure it was far better for him to have left without any preoccupation or unfinished business. After all he needed to be focused on the task at hand. As he regarded the pictures included in the dossier, what a task it was. Honey blonde locks of hair, finely molded features and soft green coloured eyes. Not to mention that the girl’s rather small frame seemed to possess sufficient curves to send his mind down a rather lurid path. Although he could almost hear the nagging voice of his superior reminding him that he was to devise a plan to save the girl, as opposed to devising a plan to seduce her once he’d rescued her.

How he was to rescue her was a matter his mind had turned to. His fingers stroked against his chin as he had very little to go upon, just a city, a name and a website. Fortunately being whom he was, he had some connections…

 

[Gwendolyn]

Of course, it didn't take long for the media to get wind of the story, which grew into a national concern overnight. Every major news station relayed the same story, hour after hour, and ended it with "We'll keep you updated." Nobody knew where Valerie Hughes was. Her friends had been questioned - rather, interrogated - by the police and the FBI, and finally the CIA, multiple times. In the end, Erin and Alicia could provide no useful information. They couldn't remember names or faces, and most of what had happened that night was lost to them; they did remember the hotel they had gone to with the men, and it was Erin who recalled that their room had been on the sixteenth floor. They police had raided every room on the sixteenth floor, and found nothing substantial. A lost roll of film was discovered under one of the sofas, containing pictures of Erin (also in her underwear and similar immodest situations as Valerie). There was a fingerprint on the roll but it was a dead end; it brought up no matches. Additionally, the website produced no leads - when they traced it back to its center of operation, Valerie wasn't there. They had taken a few people into custody, but couldn't hold them for much longer without finding more evidence, and fast.

It had been nearly seventy-two hours since Valerie had gone missing, and they were no closer to finding her.

"Now they have Bond on the case."

A folder landed on the table in front of her, and Lena Malinovsky picked it up, surveying it's contents - various travel documents, photographs, histories - with some interest. "What do you want me to do?" she asked in an accented voice.

"Keep him from finding the girl," Mr. Petrowicz told her.

Lena looked up, one of her eyesbrows arched. "At all costs?"

"If that's what it takes, yes," he said.

Lena nodded - nothing more needed to be said, she understood what was expected of her. Perhaps if she had been given a choice, she might not have selected her current career, which was that of accomplished female assassin. But she was good at what she did, and it was far more appealing that what she had been doing before. Not many women could call themselves a prostitute-turned-assassin. Not that Lena was exactly content with her past, but still. It was in the past, and it would stay there, no longer a part of her. However, her previous occupation did give her a leg up on the competition, no pun intended. She knew how to appeal to men and women alike, she knew just what to say and how to act to get them right where she wanted them. Lena almost always killed them when they were sleeping. A bullet lodged deep in their brain, blood and body matter splattering the bed sheets and walls, and she would walk out, collect her money and wait for her next assignment. Easy enough. Lena never fired to kill on a waking man, if she could help it. She'd only done that once. No, no, it was far easier to manipulate them into bed - the stupidity of men often astounded as well as amused her. When they saw a beautiful woman, they no longer thought with their brains, but with their pricks.

"Where are you keeping the girl?" Lena asked, out of sheer curiosity.

"She is taken care of," he said dismissively.

"Of course," Lena said, with a slight sigh. She perused the folder once more. "James Bond. Nobody has ever stopped him before."

"I trust you to get the job done," Mr. Petrowicz said simply. "If you are successful, you will be let go. You may consider your debt fully paid."

Lena perked up. "Really?" The man jerked his head in a semblance of a nod. She stood up, grabbing the folder as well as her black coat, which she pulled on over a simple yellow sweater and blue jeans. Well, that certainly gave her more incentive to get the job done. Lena might've learned to live with her job, and all it's consequences - physical, mental, and emotional - but that didn't mean she wanted to do this forever. She was repaying a bullshit 'debt' to Petrowicz and company, one that she had been certain would neve really be fulfilled, until now. She wondered if Petrowicz was lying to her, but knew that it wasn't necessary; she would've taken the assignment anyway, no questions asked, even without his promise. He must've been telling the truth.

"Bond has a room at the Hilton in St. Petersburg. Now, so do you," Petrowicz explained. "You know what to do. It's getting late - he'll be wanting to get some sleep, you understand?"

Yes, of course she fucking understood. Lena forced herself to nod and keep her expression impassive. Funny, how she was still a prostitute in many ways. Really, the only difference was that now, she murdered them afterward, she thought bitterly as she turned to leave. "Lena," Petrowicz called, and she looked over her shoulder. "While I will hold your debt fulfilled, and you will be free to leave, I hope that you will stay. You are a valuable asset to the company."

Lena narrowed her eyes. "You want me to do something else," she stated.

Petrowicz didn't get out of his seat - he remained behind his desk, his arms folded on top of his, his angular, handsome yet scarred face steeled into an impenetrable expression. "We need you to transport the girl. Can we trust you with this?"

"Yes, of course," Lena said.

"She is with Ivan," he told her quietly. "After you are done with Bond, bring her here. Then we wait for daddy's money." He looked back down at his papers, which meant that he was finished and Lena was free to go. She did so, walking into the chilly evening air and immediately hailing a cab for the Hilton Hotel.

+++

About an hour later, Lena sat at the bar, her cocktail sitting untouched beside her. She was wearing a thin-strapped dress made completely of black satin with a low neckline, and matching black heels. Her hair was softly curled and fell around her shoulders, it's dark color complimenting her brown skin. She looked around, her skilled eyes checking for Bond every few seconds. She figured he would be here - the police had checked all the rooms, but that wasn't good enough for Bond; he'd have to go and check them out himself, to find whatever it was the police had missed. All Lena had to do was stop him. If Bond really was a notorious womanizer, well, that shouldn't be so hard. Lena had all the womanly charms to catch Bond's attention - all she had to do was keep it long enough to get to bed, and tire him out, so to speak.

It was a simple plan.

Lena took a sip of her drink, taking some pleasure in the slow bitter burn of the vodka as it went down her throat. She crossed her legs, and waited.

 

[Methos]

The flight to St. Petersburg passed Bond by with a pair of martinis and his having learned more about Valerie Hughes than he really cared to. If the file had offered him any more inane and useless details it would have charted her cycle. It all left him no closer to finding the girl. But soon James Bond was back in Russia, nor were his adversaries the only people whom were aware of his arrival.

He exited the plane and his feet were down upon the tarmac and he was soon inside the terminal when he spied a rather familiar looking man in a trench coat. Unkept tawny hair, heavy beard subtle and a cheap cigarette combined with all the fashion sense of Columbo gave one the general appearance of Vladamir Morozov. The Russian was of a height with Bond himself and rather heavily set. The man waited as Bond walked through the terminal with luggage in hand. Morozov spoke with that distinct Russian accent slurring his words slightly when speaking in English “James fuckin’ Bond, what are you doing in Russia?”

A grin graced Bond’s lips as he remarked rather warmly “Why it had been a while Vlad so I thought you all must be starting to miss me.” The Russian scoffed as he remarked “Yes yes, you came just to grace us all with the pleasure of your company. It has nothing to do with a rich British girl whose father has political connections going missing eh?” Morozov took a long drag on his cigarette and noted “Someone in M16 has a fuckin’ sense of humor when a girl gets kidnapped by gangsters threatening to sell her as a sex slave, and they send out a vodka soaked lecher as the cavalry.”

“Sorry to disappoint Vlad I left my suit of shining armor in England. But did you have a point to meeting me here or did you simply come here to smoke like a chimney and slow me down?” The Russian waved his hand and smoke as he casually drawled “Professional courtesy, naturally I have no idea that an infamous person like yourself is present in Russia, nor that you are seeking to retrieve this Hughes girl. “

A rather wry smile crossed the British agent’s lips as he remarked “I suppose you also have no idea where I should be looking for Leo Petrowicz?” The Russian smiled “I would not be able to tell you that you could find many of his flunkies at strip club he owns and they might be able to tell you where he is.” He passed Bond a piece of paper as he remarked “And watch your back Bond I’m not the only one who knows you’re in St. Petersburg.”

From the airport a car from the embassy took him to the Hilton where this kidnapping had been staged. From his briefings the room continued to be blocked off so that further investigations could be conducted. His own rooms had been booked in the hotel simply as a matter of convenience. It was a rather long drive from the airport to the hotel, and having been dragged from the beach to an airplane to fly him across the breadth of Europe, his stomach protested that food was in order and as usual – he could use a drink.

Thus James Bond rolled into the hotel bar, cutting a rather dapper figure as he was wont to do. His black suit had a rather form fitted cut to it, which seemed to emphasize his rather athletic frame. His features had that classically handsome look to them. He possessed piercing, and intelligent eyes, angular strong male features and a mysterious and mischievous smile to go along with them. To say he was a womanizer was rather akin to saying ‘there are pyramids in Egypt’. Sure it captures a general sense of what you’re describing but the depth and scale are entirely lost in the meaning you are seeking to convey.

He still had his luggage in hand when he slide up to the bar. The bartender naturally inquired as to what he could bring him “Vodka martini, shaken not stirred.” Was naturally his rote answer as he leaned against the bar, his grey blue eyes wandered down the bar and soon found themselves lingering on the form of the tawny hued woman clad in a rather flattering black dress. She seemed entirely disinterested in her drink and thus he flashed her a rather charming smile as he remarked “You don’t seem terribly interested in your drink, whom have you been waiting for?” A slight grin graced his lips as he winked to her as he added “And why have they been so foolish as to leave a beautiful woman waiting? As I can’t imagine one could desire company any easier on the eyes.”

However, the growling of his stomach did distract the spy sufficiently that he turned back towards the bartender briefly as he remarked “It’s been some time since I’ve eaten – otbivnaya, medium rare.” As he solved that particular distraction while returning his eyes to the task of studying every inch of the woman seated not so far away from him at the bar, and it was indeed a task that fascinated him at this particular moment.

 

[Gwendolyn]

Lena felt Bond's eyes on her almost the moment he sat down - it was just too easy. She took another sip of her drink and pretended not to notice even as his eyes roamed over her. Finally, he spoke, and Lena turned her head toward him, ever so slightly. She'd baited and hooked, now all that was left to do was reel him in - which, if Bond's reputation preceded him, wouldn't be very difficult, as she was a beautiful woman he, a predictable man in the presence of one.

"What makes you so certain that I am waiting for a man?" she asked. "Maybe he is waiting for me somewhere." She gave him an easy, confident smirk. She turned around fully, and leaned one elbow back on the bar, crossing and re-crossing her legs. She allowed herself to survey his own figure - he was good-looking as sin, with a fine build, handsome, masculine features and a certain irresistible glint to his eye. Finally she looked away, this time to drain her martini glass in one practiced swig. She stood up, grabbed her black purse, and slid down a few seats, to occupy the bar stool beside Mr. Bond.

"Good choice," she said, of his food order, as she settled down next to him, close enough that their knees brushed. "I am Eva Ruelin," she told him, using one of her many aliases. Still wearing that same smirk, she extended her hand to shake his. "And you... are hopefully, not waiting for anybody, either."

 

[Methos]

There may be something predictable in his approach to women. He pursued beautiful women and rather enjoyed doing so. On the other hand so did most of his gender, the agent was simply more prolific and successful in following his particular impulses. Hence when a beautiful woman was placed before him and looking entirely alone he couldn’t help but to strike up some manner of conversation. Yet, it’s not to say that no note of suspicion or caution sounded in his mind. You don’t have a woman seek to strangle you with her thighs and then forget about it entirely.

His eyes had lingered on the woman’s form and shortly after she’d spoken he could all but feel that particular attention being returned. The woman leaning back against the bar did accent certain parts of her body, notably drawing his eyes to the forward thrust of her chest and then downwards to her crossed legs. He lofted a brow to her as she inquired how he could be sure she was waiting for someone as opposed to someone waiting for her. A bemused smile graced his lips as he idly noted “Oh I think that’s rather obvious – a half finished drink being nursed and a pose suggesting that you’ve lingered at the bar for longer than a simple drink justifies. That tells me that you’ve been waiting for something.” His own drink was raised to his lips and sipped “And a beautiful woman waiting in a bar, I’d assume it was for a man.”

If nothing else he could be an observant fellow. However, much some chose to think he was easily distracted from the task at hand. He found the woman soon seated beside him so that her leg brushed up against his own. He smiled in response to her suggestion that she hoped he wasn’t waiting for anyone himself. He shook his head slightly but leaned in towards her “Ah but I think you’ve been waiting for me.” His hand pressed to the woman’s thigh and then slid upwards along it rather boldly. Pressing into her flesh rather firmly and applying fairly firm pressure as it drifted along her. “A pleasure Eva, I’m Bond, James Bond”