[PRIVATE] The Maskirovka Tea Room

[Voshkod]

[SEMI-PRIVATE]The Maskirovka Tea Room

In a small low building in Eutopia City, a few blocks from Operational Security Incorporated, a restaurant/tavern reopens: The Maskirovka Tea Room. Owned by Nikolai Volkov, cousin and heir of Dr. Yuri Voshkod, this grim and dark place is a little bit of St. Petersburg's underworld brought to Eutopia.

When one steps in, the first impression is of cold hostility. In the front room, table are scattered about haphazardly, some with armchairs around them, some in front of sofas piled high with cushions. The seats is occupied by large men in cheap suits, all glaring at the newcomer. Samovars steam on every surface, but vodka seems to be the drink of choice. The staff ignores any unexpected guests, and anyone brave enough to take a seat and try to order will usually find several hostile and implacable Russians escorting them out.

However, if one makes a proper appointment with Nikolai Volkov, they may be escorted to the back room for further discussions.

[OOC: This thread can be used to contact less scrupulous and wholesome elements of Eutopian society. Anyone can post, but all conversations are considered to be between the participants, and Volkov reserves to right not to see particular visitors.]

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

[unmerged(33865)]

An envelope arrives addressed to Nikolai Volkov, containing a key to a locker in a train station, a sheet of paper printed by laser printer describing where the locker is, and a 100 ducat note.

 

[Voshkod]

During morning rush hour, several burly men entered the train station. They fanned out, setting up a rough perimeter around a stand of lockers, and began to lounge casually. A few minutes later, a non-descript young man walked up to a particular locker, took out a key, and opened it, discovering . . . .

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

[Voshkod]

With a dry chuckle, Volkov let the paper fall to his desk. His lawyer picked it up, read it aloud to the group.

Per Volkov,

It has come to my attention that there are two ways your organization could serve its own ends and, at the same time, those of the United Provinces of Eutopia as well.

The government has been aware, for sometime, that weapons like Stingers had gone missing from official channels. Conventional means of recovering them have been less than successful. Therefore, the government might be willing to consider purchasing some of the missing inventory, no questions asked, at prices more appropriate to the black market than the the invoice price from the manufacturer. Obviously, we don't want to give anyone an incentive to go out and steal more to sell to you to sell to us, so this would only be applicable to items that went missing prior to the beginning of this term.

The other area involves some international activity. As you may be aware, our country has been subjected to arms embargos from both the US and Europe. This has grounded much of our Air Force, due to the lack of key spare parts. If we were to provide your firm with a list of needed parts, could you possibly arrange to supply some of them. I am sure something could be arranged on a cost plus basis.

If you wish to respond to this message, please mail a key to a different locker to [a hotel in Western Eutopia]. I am sure that both of our interest are best served by keeping this confidential.

"Well," the attorney commented, "it's either a very clumsy attempt to entrap, or an honest offer."

A tall Chechen gunman grunted. "Bad idea. We act on it, even if it's honest, and they know what we're up to.

"But the offer," smiled the Dutch smuggler, "is worth quite a bit. Not something to turn our nose up at?"

Volkov sighed. "Of course, my friends, we'll do all we can to help dear Eutopia. We know people who know people, right? Perhaps we can put the government in touch with some . . . tertiary party . . . that can help them out. Maria? Take a letter."

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

[Voshkod]

Over a fifteen minute period during the afternoon rush, three men and two women enter the new FFHI hotel in Western Eutopia. Two men stake out the bar. One gets a shoe shine, and casually watches the area where the lockers are. A young lady engages a bellhop in a prolonged discussion about tourism possibilities, while an older woman haggles with the desk clerk.

All are armed. All are alert.

Finally, the clear signal having been given (the old lady ending her tirade with a curse and upthrown arms), the courier enters the lobby. He pauses, purchases a newspaper, and heads over toward the lockers. Under the cover of his overcoat (carefully draped over his arms) he pulls on a pair of leather gloves. He opens a locker, places in an envelope containing a letter and two hundred ducat bills. The letters, bills, and envelope have all been scrubbed for fingerprints and irradiated to degrade any DNA.

That done, he locks the locker, quickly reverses his gloves (so the key is now held in the clean outer layer of the glove), folds the gloves into his newspaper, and passes the newspaper off in a bump pass to the young lady who has finished chatting up the bellhop.

She exits the hotel and enters a van. She dumps the key into a clean envelope (again scrubbed and irradiated) and the van heads south, crossing the border into St. Espirit. The envelope with the key is sent from there.

[PM to follow after the Feds open the locker.]

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

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A letter arrives from the MDIS containing a list spare parts needed for their F-5E II Tiger aircraft.

 

[Voshkod]

The sound of laughter is not a usual noise in the Tea Room. Volkov steps into the main room, still weak from mirth. "They've given us . . . a list of spare parts . . . that they need for their planes!," he says through the laughs. "I'll contact the . . . Minister immediately," he continues, wheezing slightly. "Arkady? Find out what the Tilipians will pay for a copy of that list, eh?"

With that he starts heading back to his office. "Let's be careful, boys, or we'll be respectable businessmen before we know it!"

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

[Voshkod]

The Russian sat down in the ratty cafe in Peshawar, Pakistan. The noise of the market outside was deafening, and the scowls from the other customers unnerving. This was not a good place to be Russian, he thought grimly. Half the people in here may be Afghans, and they have long memories. He studied his watch for a moment, trying to avoid looking too nervous. He's late. It's a trap. They're going to break all my bones and leave me for their women to skin alive.

The cafe door opened, and a light-skinned young man in a dark suit stepped in. He glanced about the room, and his gaze settled on the Russian. He smiled, and sat down. "Good morning, my friend," he said in English with a hint of an accent. "I'm glad to chose to meet. My superiors have examined the list you sent us, and have decided to provide the equipment you requested."

The Russian smiled broadly. "I'm glad to hear that. How much will it cost?"

The Iranian leaned back in his chair. "Oh, we don't want money, my friend. . . ." The Russian's smile quickly faded as the Iranian explained.

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

[Voshkod]

The Russian handed over the papers. "We've done our part," he said with a smile. "The equipment is on the way, as your men in Amsterdam can confirm. Your turn."

The Iranian didn't bother opening the briefcase. If there was any game being played here, it was too late. He popped open a cellphone. "Andy, my friend," he said, "I've just been speaking with George. He tells me that he put the package in the mail yesterday, and I've seen the receipt. So let's get our check out to him, OK?" He nodded at the response and clicked closed the phone.

"The Neptunian Cross will leave Bandar-e Maqam tonight, pass Hormuz by dawn, and be in open water by dusk the next day. A transit of the Canal and Gibralter, some open water sailing, she should arrive in your waters in three weeks." They shook hands. "A pleasure doing business."

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

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It was pouring with rain, this paticular Tuesday Rush Hour in Hurteau. Jacques Moreau-Dumont was shuffling along with a mass of people in a massive coat and hat, one that made him unrecognizable to his fellow herd. It didn't really matter anyways, only a few people would realize him as the Former Vice-President, they'd probably know him better as the owner of Moreau Master Chocolatiers. He sighed, quickly looked up at the clouds (they wern't clearing) and cursed softly.

Merde! It rains practically once a year in Hurteau, why today?

"Must be a bad omen, Jacques."
It was his conciense.

Omens don't exist, I'm Athiest.

He spoke silently, almost desperatly. He knew it was coming.

"Agnostic, Jacques."
He made his way quickly into the Phonebooth and fumbled for change. He found them, but only when they showered out of his right pocket onto the floor, all 48.

Merde!

That curse literally shook the Phonebooth, the people who walked past looked dissaprovinlgy into the booth, but couldn't see Jacques' face. Jacques picked up a few and put them into the phone. He dialed the Mariskovra Tearoom.

Can't go back now, I've started FEAR and everything.

"You haven't done anything, disband, there isn't innocent blood on your hand. Yet."

Jacques blinked hard. He'd already dialed the Tearoom and waited impatiently for it to be awnsered.

Ah, bonjour. May I request an appointment with a certain Nikolai Volkov? I would like to enquire about buisness.

 

[Voshkod]

The voice on the other end of the phone is perhaps less welcoming than frost flowing out of Siberia. "If you have business with him, call OSI." Silence for a moment, and then the voice continues. "Who is this, and what sort of business?"

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

[unmerged(23409)]

This is Monsieur Jacques Moreau-Dumont, sir. I wish to enquire with him about "buisness". I have an order form for him.

Jacques prayes he knows what he means.

 

[Voshkod]

The gravelly voice emits a short barking laugh. "All right, Monsieur Jacques Moreau-Dumont" - he drags the name out with dripping sarcasm - "be at the Tearoom tonight, 11 PM. Mr. Volkov will see you then."

- Voshkod as Demi-mod

 

[unmerged(23409)]

Eleven, merci. Au revoir!

Jacques slammed the phone down. Why the Russians? They had no manners, no finesse, cold and miserable, exactly like their homeland. He'd dealt with Russians before, but they'd never had any power over him, and these men were the Mafia who could kill you without blinking an eye.

What can I do though? It's too late.

He walked out of the Phonebooth, and began the journey home.

 

[unmerged(23409)]

Two minutes to eleven on the same evening, Jacques scurries into the Maskirovra Tea Room wearing a long Trenchcoat and hat, like in the movies. He walked over to the secretary (OOC: Or whoever) and said suprisingly confidently.

I am Jacques Moreau-Dumont, I have an appointment with Mr. Volkov for eleven, is he ready to see me?

 

[Voshkod]

Monsieur Jacques Moreau-Dumont quickly realizes that the Tea Room is a bar, and not at all likely to feature a secretary. Instead, a leggy woman with a cheap blonde dye-job looks up at him from behind the long bar, weariness carved around her eyes. She takes a long drag on a hand-rolled cigarette and blows a stream of nasty smoke into Moreau-Dumont's face. The Tea Room erupts into gutteral laughter from a dozen tough looking men scattered about the place, slamming down chilled vodka.

"Well, Jack," she says with a New Lancaster accent as tired as her eyes, "Mr. Volkov's in the back room." She points across the dingy, smoke-filled bar, toward a nice oak door. Moreau-Dumont makes his way there, past the thugs and toughs, all of who seem to be staring at him with unwholsome and predatory smiles. But he reaches the door without trouble.

The door opens as he approaches, and a vulpine Alexei Volkov steps out. Volkov is dressed in a nicely-tailored tuxedo, as if he has just returned from the theater. A copy of La Voix is tucked under one arm. He takes two steps forward and shakes Moreau-Dumont's hand. "Good evening, Monsieur, a pleasure to see you." He guides him into the back room.

The back room is quiet and windowless. A fire burns in a huge fireplace, and several soft armchairs sit in a semi-circle before a vast oak desk. Volkov shows Moreau-Dumont to a chair before the fire, and then sits with easy grace across from him. He's wearing a vague smile.

"So, Monsieur, a drink? Brandy? Or straight to business, eh?"

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

[unmerged(23409)]

Jacques talks to himself while walking to the backroom

And that's why no-one in Eutopia likes New Lancastrians. Well, so far so good...

Jacques sits down on one of the chairs, anxious and taking in every bit of the surroundings. "Volkov doesn't seem like he's going to kill me. I doubt he even has a gun on him. Calm, Jacques, calm."

Yes, Brandy would be fine. I think I need a drink.

 

[Voshkod]

With an easy smile, Volkov stands, moves over to solid mahogany table, and pours two superb brandies from a cut-crystal decanter. He hands one to Moreau-Dumont, along with a fine Cuban cigar.

"So, Monsieur," Volkov begins in accentless French, "how can I be of help?"

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

[Voshkod]

The customs inspector idly watched from his hut as the M/V Neptunian Cross tie lines at the docks at St. Brendenstown. He scanned his clipboard. Neptunian Cross, bulk freighter, cargo of pistachio nuts, two weeks out of Eilat, Israel. When the small freighter was secure, he yawned, put on his hat, and stepped out into the pre-dawn gloom for his inspection.

The sudden flaring of two cigarettes from the darkness between two shipping containers startled him. He watched as they emerged from the shadows, the short, wiry one with the nasty grin and the pistol on his belt, and the big ugly one with the gaping mouth devoid of teeth.

"Ummmm. . . . morning, Mike, Boris," he said.

Mike took a drag from the cigarette. "'allo, Reggie, what'ca doin'?"

Reggie smiled weakly. "Gonna inspect that ship over there, right?"

Boris (if that was his real name; at the docks, they just knew he was Russian, so he must be Boris) laughed, a gurgling deep sound, overwhelming Mike's nervous little titter. "No, no, mate," Mike said, putting a hand on Reggie's shoulder. "You're gonna go back into your little hut with this fine cigar, this fine magazine, and this little bundle of ducats, and you're gonna look at the pretty ladies for 'bout 'alf an 'our, right?"

Reggie quickly riffed through the envelope of ducats. "Ummm, yeah, yeah, Mike, that's what I'm gonna do!"

"That's the spirit, chum," Mike said, slapping Reggie on the back, "and when ya get aboard, you can look at all the nuts ya want!"

Reggie retreated into his hut and waited for almost an hour as a dozen trucks drove out of the docks for parts unknown. When all was quiet again, he finally made his inspection of the Neptunian Cross. Nothing but pistachio nuts was found.

- Voshkod as demi-mod

 

[unmerged(23409)]

With an easy smile, Volkov stands, moves over to solid mahogany table, and pours two superb brandies from a cut-crystal decanter. He hands one to Moreau-Dumont, along with a fine Cuban cigar.

"So, Monsieur," Volkov begins in accentless French, "how can I be of help?"

- Voshkod as demi-mod

Jacques sipped the brandy. Whatever you could say about the Russians, they always had good drinks.

Well Monseiur, one word, or acronym. FEAR.

We cannot fight a war without weapons, and as we may have quantities of handguns, we do not have such vital weapons as Assault Rifles and Explosives. I have a list, if you would want to read it.