Vaskov was an intelligent man according to all reports. However pride and intelligence do not always go hand in hand at times, and that day he was showing little of his intelligent side. He fingered the thick cream envelope - he had always attended this event, and a few threats on his life and concern for his safety did not warrant staying away from such a public event. In fact it had been a miracle he had agreed to any security measures at all. He was an important man, at least he liked to think he was, and it would do his reputation no harm if he had to be seen with a few bodyguards. After all, most of the high ranking politicians had them.
He mused this thought and others involving his plans for government for a few moments. It was a matter of principle, he decided, to go to this event. He would not let it be said in the media that Vaskov was a coward. Of course, they wouldn't, he amended, there was no knowledge within the press of the increased security around the Russian Minister. They were not aware of biological weapons, and other such threats, it was mere speculation to them. He puffed his chest out at the thought in his involvement in such a sensitive situation, they would know that Vaskov was no mere junior minister to be trifled with and threatened. He would not play such silly games.
Of course, it would be better if he could be seen with a few of those large oafs that paraded around in sunglasses, muttering into radios and denying people access to their precious ward. However low key was the idea according to his security advisor, who had nearly had heart attack when informed that Vaskov still intended to attend the ballet that evening. Low key, and British. A sneer came onto the Minister's rather weak upper lip. British Secret Service. Ha. What did the British know about security, they were as bad as those blasted Americans, with their involvement in the Cold War and silly passwords and secret agents. No, he thought, the KGB had been a far more organised operation. He sighed, damn political diplomacy. Damn the British, damn their secret agents, he would not be ordered around by some silly stiff upper lipped, tea drinking, ex public school boy Englishman. Even if he was accompanied by Vasili Dmitrov. This was at least agreeable to the Minister, Dmitrov was a well known and hard working agent, he could be trusted to keep the English in line and in deference to Vaskov and his power.
Vaskov leaned back in his expensive leather chair and cracked his knuckles. He was rather looking forward to tonight. He had always fancied his chances with Lucinda Elliot as well, perhaps tonight his luck would be in.
The Cold War might have finished a decade earlier, but it still waged between Bond and Ashleigh. Suspending hostilities for the evening at least, Bond, suave and dark in a beautifully cut dinner jacket, took her arm as she stepped from the car and onto the steps below the Mariinsky. Looking up at the pretty pastel building, and feeling the night air surround her, Ashleigh gave a small shiver of anticipation. James felt it, and glanced down at his goddaughter, seeing her burn with an inner glow he had never seen before. Pale coffee coloured satin slid from one shoulder to fall to the ground, skimming over her curves, her other shoulder, left bare was suddenly dotted with goosebumps that were not down to the cold. She pulled her sheer gold wrap tighter around her, not noticing the admiring glances from the men nearby. Breathing in James could smell a rich warm scent unlike the cool perfume she usually wore, and the heat of her skin intensified it until it surrounded him, her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes glittered. Quickly, making sure she was safely footed on the slippery steps, James dropped her arm as if it would burn him, he had never seen Ashleigh like this before, languorous and intoxicating, her sensuality on display for every man to see. It was a far cry from the child he had known and he could not meet her hazy eyes. Disturbed he stepped back away from her, letting Dmitrov and Ashleigh enter the building first.
The plan was to separate. Dmitrov and Bond would sit in a private box, observing everything and watching for Deronda. Ashleigh, posing as the Russian Minister's escort, would sit with him in the Grand Circle where they could be seen, but would be safer than the exposed boxes or stalls.
The lights dimmed and as the music soared Ashleigh's heart gave a sudden leap. Prokofiev's 'Romeo and Juliet', the opening movement soothing her with its familiarity, the dancers suddenly pouring onto stage graceful and bewitching. She loved the ballet as it was but tonight the music entered her heart and pumped through her veins.
She tried to ignore Vaskov sitting closely beside her. He was a particularly nervous and highly strung man, but with an arrogance that grated upon Ashleigh's nerves. Tall and thin with a straggly black mustache and black hair that threatened to turn greasy at any moment he made up for his lack of bulk with his inflated sense of self importance. Viewing Ashleigh as nothing more than one of his minor employees, and a female one at that, he had been making derogatory marks, and several sexist ones since she had introduced herself to him earlier. In a surprisingly loud voice he continued an anti British rant in the car, and had continued as they had round their seats. Sorely tempted to deck him and prove what a 'thin little thing' like her could do, Ashleigh gritted her teeth as his hand stole onto her thigh once more. Firmly she removed it, shot him a look filled with daggers and once more lost herself in the music.
Her favourite movement was starting, the theme of the Montagues and Capulets with its heavy evocative strings and the heavy bass of the oboes, and Ashleigh, moving her legs deftly away from the minister sat back and let the music surround her. But for some reason she couldn't enjoy it. She felt as if she was being watched, and it unsettled her. With a frown she tried to shake the sensation off, but it stayed, a prickling at the top of her spine.
Ashleigh was being watched. In a secluded box a pair of eyes was trained on her, staring in grim fascination and admiration at the young woman. Surrounded by the wrinkled crones of St. Petersburg in the Grand Circle she stood out. Her amber eyes suddenly flickered round, and he stepped back into the shadows, until he saw her look away and toy with the edge of her wrap. It was no time to be admiring foreign females though, and he focused on the job at hand, drawing his attention back to her companion.
One of the first lessons that she had learnt at MI6 was to trust her instincts. There were many things in the world that could not be explained and an agent had to believe in their own hunches, and act upon them. Bond was a good example of this, and now Ashleigh suddenly felt extremely nervous. All the beauty of the ballet had faded away, instead the dancers seemed to parade a series of grotesque shapes and figures before her, as their bodies crumpled to the floor in the dance of death. The music screeched in her eyes, no longer beautiful but a funeral wail. Her skin continued to prickle and a light sweat broke out on her skin. Leaning towards Vaskov she murmured softly in his ear.
'We must move. We must get away from here. When I stand, follow me.'
He turned to glare at her. 'Don't be stupid girl.'
Clenching her fists in frustration Ashleigh continued to cajole. 'Something isn't right, we must go now.'
Vaskov looked at the young woman next to him, and composed his features into what he hoped was one of paternal knowledge. To Ashleigh it came across as patronising and ever so slightly leering. 'No one is going to attempt to do anything here, not on such an important night. You British are all the same, paranoid. No stop being a silly little girl and enjoy the ballet.'
He gave her a small smile that was meant to reassure her, after all she wasn't an unattractive girl, he didn't want to upset her too much. However he realised his audience was lost, she was staring at his chest in horror.
'Duck, now!' she hissed frantically, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him forward.
If he had let her pull him down he might have survived. Instead, glancing at his chest he saw a dancing red light flickering over his heart. There was a dull thud, and he slumped backwards in his chair.
Ashleigh stared in horror at the dead man in the seat next to her. It was too dimly lit in the theatre for the blood that was spreading across his chest to be seen as nothing more than a dark slightly glistening wet patch. She threw herself forward, reaching for her small beaded bag, praying that the person in front of her and their seat would cover her from the next bullet.
Her heart was thudding so loud she was sure that it would be drowning out the music by now. Her mouth was dry as she slowly counted to twenty, praying that the moment she sat up a bullet wouldn't tear into her. She grabbed her bag, and tentatively sat up. She leaned toward the woman next to her, and spoke quietly in Russian.
'Would you mind keeping an eye on my companion please? He does find the ballet a bore and has fallen asleep. If he wakes up would you mind telling him I've just gone to the bathroom?'
The rather plump middle aged woman in an expensive black dress decorated with peacock feathers smiled at the pretty young lady next to her, her accented Russian polite and charming. Glancing at her face she noticed the girl had gone deathly pale, and seemed to be trembling. The woman nodded, 'Of course, my dear,' then as Ashleigh stood and shakily made to move past the woman she placed a hand on the girl's wrist. 'Are you feeling alright?' she asked concerned.
Ashleigh swallowed, feeling panic rise within her once more, desperate to get away from the Circle. She forced herself to be calm. 'Yes, thank you, it's just the heat...' her voice trailed off, and the woman nodded her agreement and let the girl go. She always thought these theatres got far too overheated, and a young girl with a delicate composition could well feel woozy in such a long performance. The woman's mind was drawn away from the young foreign woman as Tybalt swept arrogantly onto the stage below.
Panic was still threatening to swap her. She had abandoned her wrap in the Circle, and was now desperately searching for Bond and Dmitrov. She couldn't remember what number the Box was that they were in, and in her frantic state she couldn't calm herself down enough to recall it. Hearing a noise behind her she slunk into the shadows and fumbled in her bag, drawing out the small silver pistol Alec had given her.
She let her breath out in a rush, as she saw her follower was nothing more than one of the many stewards that worked at the theatre. She tucked the gun into the fold of her skirt, and stepped out into the light.
'Mademoiselle?' the young man asked, 'Can I help you?'
'Oh can you?' she said breathlessly, trying to make herself seem as helpless as possible. 'I've managed to get myself lost trying to get back to my box. You couldn't possibly tell me which way it is?'
He gave her a strange look, and she gritted her teeth knowing how flimsy it sounded even to her own ears, but caught on the hop it was the best she could do. She blushed as he pointed out a rather obvious sign directing her to the boxes and to the various levels of the theatre.
'If you follow those stairs, you should find yourself in the correct place. I could escort you if you wish...' The steward looked like he'd rather not.
'Oh, no, I'll be fine from here, silly me,' she gave a weak smile and hurried off in the direction of the boxes before he could think she was even more insane than she appeared.
Ashleigh hated the eerie sensation of the deserted corridors within the theatre. She edged along the empty passageways, gun tucked away out of sight, but ready for use at any moment. She suddenly had a horrible feeling that she had taken a wrong turning somewhere, because rather than finding herself in more populated areas it actually seemed to be getting quieter. She could hear the muffled noise of the performance below, but it seemed to be getting further away with every step she took. Maybe she had climbed too high, there were a few boxes up here, but they were few and far apart. Slowly she approached a door and clicked it open, peering into the emptiness inside.
Nothing. Peering over the edge of the box she realised she was much higher above the stage than she expected, all was quiet below her, no one appeared to have noticed the dead man sitting among them as the masses watched the show. Silently she headed back into the corridor, and for the next door.
Cautiously she reached for the handle, just before she touched it she glanced up and down the empty hallway just in case, convinced she was being watched. Letting her breath out in a rush she made to turn the handle.
Before she could the door flew open, strong hands were grabbing her and pulling her into the darkness beyond, one hand over her mouth, another arm clamping her arms to her sides, she froze, letting herself be dragged in, feigning obedience, until the arms loosened slightly. With a quick action she stamped down, feeling the kitten heel of her shoe scrape down a shin, there was a muffled curse, and she was half released, half thrown against the far wall of the box.
Her senses were reeling, blinded by the sudden plunge into the dark she blinked, trying to focus, she breathed deeply and was surrounded by a cool familiar scent. A figure stood opposite her, and as her eyes adjusted she could see they were holding a gun. Even in this light she could tell they were far taller and stronger than her.
An all too recognisable voice spoke out into the darkness.
'We really must stop meeting like this.'