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certainproclivityThe evening, in Sark's opinion, was looking to be a total waste. He'd been given strict instructions to eliminate Alexander Molokov and the intel he had received indicated that he'd be at a performance of the Russian ballet in Moscow tonight, because Ilona was performing and he rarely, if ever, missed her performances- never mind that he was a stickler for ballet, in general, but Ilona was extra insurance that he'd probably be there. Unfortunately, by the time Sark had made it to Moscow, met his contact and received his tickets to the performance, he learned the news that Molokov had been called away on some business or another and wouldn't be attending, which left Sark with a ticket to a show he didn't particularly want to see and the weight of a mission failed before it ever begain weighing over his head.
"Go and see the ballet anyway, Mr. Sark," his contact had said, patting him on the back in a way that Sark found condescending and wholly unnecessary. "You'll like it. And culture's good for the young."
Sark was fairly certain that wasn't going to be the case at all. What he would like were directions to where one might find Alexander Molokov so that he might put a bullet in the man's head, call this mission a success, and return to Galway. Russia always left a bad taste in his mouth, especially when he could clearly see his father's face in every man that passed by him in the street, and all that did was make his itchy trigger finger all that much more nagging.
Still. The tickets were for decent enough seats and he wasn't overtly opposed to the ballet, as a general rule. In the end, what tipped the scales was the lovely Ms. Sergievsky- Molokov's little pet. Rumors said he was courting her, but nothing could be said for absolute certain, because Molokov was KGB and thus knew how to conduct his affairs in private.
That was how Sark came to be in one of the best seats in the house, watching the performance with a calculating air. When Ilona leaves the stage tonight, there'll be three dozen roses in red, pink, and white, courtesy of a devoted fan, waiting for her in her dressing room and, shortly after, he'll be there to play the part of an adoring, polite, and devoted follower of her work. After all, if he can't get to Molokov right now, he can certainly get to Ilona and, perhaps, she might lead him to his target.
But that comes later, after the performance. He just can't help thinking three moves ahead.
"Go and see the ballet anyway, Mr. Sark," his contact had said, patting him on the back in a way that Sark found condescending and wholly unnecessary. "You'll like it. And culture's good for the young."
Sark was fairly certain that wasn't going to be the case at all. What he would like were directions to where one might find Alexander Molokov so that he might put a bullet in the man's head, call this mission a success, and return to Galway. Russia always left a bad taste in his mouth, especially when he could clearly see his father's face in every man that passed by him in the street, and all that did was make his itchy trigger finger all that much more nagging.
Still. The tickets were for decent enough seats and he wasn't overtly opposed to the ballet, as a general rule. In the end, what tipped the scales was the lovely Ms. Sergievsky- Molokov's little pet. Rumors said he was courting her, but nothing could be said for absolute certain, because Molokov was KGB and thus knew how to conduct his affairs in private.
That was how Sark came to be in one of the best seats in the house, watching the performance with a calculating air. When Ilona leaves the stage tonight, there'll be three dozen roses in red, pink, and white, courtesy of a devoted fan, waiting for her in her dressing room and, shortly after, he'll be there to play the part of an adoring, polite, and devoted follower of her work. After all, if he can't get to Molokov right now, he can certainly get to Ilona and, perhaps, she might lead him to his target.
But that comes later, after the performance. He just can't help thinking three moves ahead.
