Budapest

Natasha - The American

NATASHA

Three months.

Three long, grueling, frustrating months Natasha had been at the Bolshoi and she was still as empty handed as day one. She never had a dry spell this long, unless she was missing something, but there were no other angles to cover. It seemed to have come down to a waiting game, waiting and watching for someone, anyone, to mess up.

Following Nemirovsky proved to be nothing more than a wild goose chase. Natasha had spread the word through a few of her contacts around Moscow that she needed favors and information but Nemirovsky had come out fairly clean – a little hiccup with drugs in her early teens was hardly much to raise an eyebrow at. For all intents and purposes, Nemirovsky was just a regular hard working ballerina who happened to be dating the nephew of a traitor to Russia.

And the nephew, she'd looked into him too but he was ridiculously squeaky clean. Arthur Vanko, as it turned out, was so soft-spoken and easy going that Nemirovsky regularly walked all over him. Definitely not the type to be entrenched in the nuclear weapons business but Natasha kept an eye on him all the same, just in case. She was, after all, an expert on "appearances can be deceiving."

The mission was almost becoming somewhat monotonous and boring...and then the American showed up.

He called himself Henry Jones which was a bald-faced lie. Natasha had to give him credit though, he hid it fairly well. No one else noticed how he hesitated for a fraction of a section and his tone rose in pitch at the end of his name, posed almost like a question as if he didn't believe it himself. That meant it was a new alias and he hadn't had time to get used to it yet which worked very well in her favor. A newbie would be easy to find.

When Natasha had first caught a glimpse of the American, walking so confidently into the theatre and joining the work crew, she ignored the stab of heartache deep in her chest and quickly buried it, switching off her emotions and focusing on snatching up every detail she could about him. The dark leather jacket, the way his cap sat slightly tilted to the side, suggesting confidence, the way he moved, smooth and easy, like a dancer or an athlete. As long as she kept analyzing him, that nagging little voice at the back of her mind would remain silent and she'd make it stay that way at all costs.

Natasha had made herself well acquainted with every dirty detail she could scrounge up on every person associated with the theatre, staff, dancers, financial contributors. Everyone. The new guy, she did not know, and it made her uneasy.

Once rehearsal was over, she didn't bother changing, just stripped off her slippers, tugged on her heels and coat as she was walking out the back door, heading straight for Ivan's limo. From of the corner of her eye, she saw the American slip out after her, following at a discreet distance behind but gaining fast the further away from the theatre she got. Her shoulders went rigid, her body tense and prepared for combat. She reached the limo at the exact same time that the American clamped a hand on her arm.

Natasha whipped around, caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back. She grabbed a fistful of his coat and shoved him face-first against the limo door, pressing his cheek against the surface of the car.

"Hey! Wait, whoa," he protested. "Jeez, Princess, take it easy."

"Why are you following me?" she hissed.

"Well, if you'd just let me go, I'll explain..."

Natasha shoved him harder against the car and he grunted in pain.

"Ow, hey, come on, I was sent to get you by one of the other dancers, I swear."

She squinted at him in suspicion. "By whom?"