Rogue agents 1: The prima ballerina

The ghost in the opera

Moscow winter

*Sebastian*

I look around the sidewalk, then let my eyes slide up the buildings, making sure there is no one suspicious around, at least to my best ability, and without lying I can say this is what I am good at: spotting if someone does not belong.

Seeing nothing suspicious, the only people in sight are our own two men, I wave my client and his daughter forward. I did not like their choice of restaurant, as it is located on one of Moscow's closed plazas, and forces us to walk for a couple of minutes unprotected before reaching the car.

“This way, sir... Miss Romanov,” I say in my rather broken Russian.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Vasily Ivanovich Romanov uses my cover name, which is, of course, the only one he knows.

He does know I work for MI6, sent here to protect him against President Pavel Baranow and his government. Romanov, who claims to be a descendant of the last czar, is trying to overthrow the president, which both Britain and the United States support.

Baranow is as close to a dictator as you can come without openly being one, and he is not easy to work with for the rest of the world.

I pull my coat a little closer around me, trying to shield myself from the Russian winter. An evening like this makes me long for the British weather.

Nodding to one of our men, I move swiftly along, wanting to get to the car as fast as possible. Russia is not a safe place for anyone who is critical of the president... actually, it is not really safe for anyone these days.

“Come on, Karolina,” Mr. Romanov calls for his daughter, who has stopped to look at a window. “You need to get home and go to bed; you have practice tomorrow.”

“Yes, father,” she sounds almost like a kid, despite being twenty-three, I believe she is. But she has been sheltered her whole life. She is a ballet dancer and has just been promoted to prima ballerina here at the Moscow Ballet.

I turn to look at her and see what looks like a homeless man, huddled over in an old military uniform, stumbling out from the alley between two buildings and straight towards Karolina.

"Karolina," I call out, using her first name as a precaution in case the stranger is unaware of her identity. I try to move swiftly towards her without drawing unnecessary attention. "Hurry, please."

But before I can reach her, the drunk man stumbles into her, knocking her to the ground, prompting me to sprint.

*Karolina*

I see the homeless drunk only seconds before he slams into me, making me stumble to the ground. “Oh!”

“So sorry, pretty lady... so sorry,” the man mumbles in Russian, the local dialect, stumbling around. “Olav is an old drunk fool.”

Getting on my feet, I see my father's British head of security, Oliver Steele, come running over.

“It’s fine, I am not hurt,” I say to the man. He is just a homeless drunk who meant no harm, and I do not want him to get in trouble.

“Good... good,” he looks around. “Let Olav get your purse.”

I realize I have dropped my handbag, and a couple of things have tumbled out. And old Olav starts picking them up.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” I say, reaching for the last couple of things myself.

He holds out my bag. “For the prettiest girl in all of Mother Russia.”

“Are you okay, Karolina?” Oliver says as he reaches me, putting himself between me and the stranger, and when I nod, he takes a gentle hold of my arm. “Come on, time to get home.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” the old man says.

I turn, taking my bag. “Thank you.”

For a second, my eyes catch his under the hat and dirty hair... warm teasing hazel eyes, not the cloudy eyes of a drunk I expected, but sharp and intelligent. Then he stumbles off, and I shake my head.

“Something wrong, miss? Did he hurt you?” Oliver asks.

I shake my head. “No, I am just a bit tired.”

When we reach my father, he glares at Oliver. “Mr. Steele, will you explain why we are letting drunks knock my daughter to the ground and let him walk away?”

“Father!” I say. “I am okay, and the poor old man meant no harm; he was just... drunk... Oliver did the right thing.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Romanov, sir,” Oliver says. “I will do better from now on.”

My father nods. “Good, I like to think Britain sent a qualified man... Karolina needs to dance; she can’t get hurt.”

I get in the car. My father is a bit overprotective; he wants me to be the biggest ballerina in the world, and I have been training since I was three years old. It is hard, but I do love dancing.

2 days later:

"Smile, Karolina, people are watching," my father says through clenched teeth and a smile. "You are a star, shine like one... you do look beautiful tonight."

I smile my brightest smile. We are at the theater to watch an opera being performed by real Italian singers. And, of course, my father has a royal box, more for us to be seen than to watch.

My hand goes to the very expensive necklace I am wearing. My father has just bought it; he calls it our insurance. I find it a bit too much, and it also makes me nervous to wear something this expensive.

"I really hope this isn’t too boring," my father mumbles.

I glance at Oliver, who stands by the wall. He smiles at me. I look back at my father. "I am looking forward to it."

"Italians screaming about lost love... no thank you," my father says, and I choose not to say anything.

There is a light knock on the door, and one of the two guards outside pokes his head in. Oliver looks at him. "Yes."

"There was just a messenger here from the director of the opera. He wanted to talk to Mr. Romanov about getting Miss Romanov to dance in Rome. He asked if he would come down right away."

My father lights up, and I am not sure if he is more excited about the meeting or missing the start of the opera. "Karolina, stay here and lock the door. There are two guards outside. Oliver, come with me."

"Okay, father," I say with a small nod. I mean, nothing can happen in a royal box that is locked from the inside and has two guards on the outside.

Oliver nods and walks out the door, with my father following. I quickly lock the door and get back to my seat, waiting for the opera to begin.

The music starts, and I try to enjoy it, but there is a weird sound. Then suddenly, a couple of hands grab the balustrade, and a person swings himself into my box, apparently from the one below.

"Please don’t scream, Miss Romanov. I am not going to hurt you," he says in perfect Russian.

He is big, both tall and wide, taking up most of the box, or so it feels. "Who are you... what do you want?"

"I am sorry to inconvenience such a charming young lady," he bows slightly and smiles at me. "But I am gonna need that necklace, darling."

"The necklace? You are a thief?" I ask in surprise.

He shrugs. "I prefer the title 'acquirer of rare objects.'"

"A thief," I huff.

"What if I exchange it for something?" He sends me a cheeky but also rather charming smile. "Something a girl like you are just dying to have... then I wouldn’t be a thief."

I stare at him, realizing I am not really scared, annoyed sure, but not scared. He doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. And he has an almost boyish charm to him, and warm hazel eyes... hazel eyes... I can’t place those eyes.

"I am sure you have nothing I want," I narrow my eyes.

"Oh, but I do." And suddenly, he is too close, and then his lips are softly touching mine, and I feel like the floor is pulled from under me.

As he pulls away, I blink my eyes frantically, his grinning face coming into view, my necklace dangling from his hand. "Thank you, darling... and you are very welcome."

My hands grab at my neck, and the words come out as gasps. "You... You..."

"Charming bastard? Great kisser?" He suggests.

Just then there is a frantic knocking. "Karolina, open the door... it’s Oliver."

"Help, I am being robbed!" I yell, staring at the intruder. How dare he steal my first kiss like that.

"And this is my cue to leave," he bows to me again. "A pleasure, my beautiful."

Something starts slamming against the door, Oliver’s body I am quite sure, and I can hear my father outside too.

The guy raises his arm, and something shoots towards the glass ceiling, and through an open hatch I hadn’t noticed. He pulls it to make sure it is secured, I think, and then he salutes me before pushing a button, getting pulled up and up through the ceiling.

Oliver bursts through the door, followed by my father, who instantly says, "What happened? We were tricked to leave."

"A... a... robber... he... he stole the necklace," I say, touching my bare neck.

"Did he hurt you in any way?" Oliver asks.

I shake my head. He kissed me, but that can’t really be called hurting me. Also I do not really want to tell them. "No... he disappeared up through the ceiling”.

Oliver and one of the other men together with guards from the teather instantly run to the roof, but no one is there. He has disappeared into thin air with the necklace.