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Jean-Jacques fills two levels in a five story pre-war building in Berlin. West Berlin, important note, in stone's throw of the Wall. With the revelry downstairs being so thrilling, notably with Russian agents crawling all over the place, Jorg doesn't waste time. "C'mon, I've got to take a piss. Then we can find something that passes for actual drink instead of gold and vodka." Shows how long he plans to sit around. The crowd is heavy, the music thumping, and the conversations roiling loud and noisy. All the better to make traveling easier, especially when Jorg knows his clientele and they know the man in the ruffled shirt. He owns the title of supreme louche after all. Might as well stumble his way into happy places, laughing as he goes, dragging Coulson along. He shoos one of the birds on a couch upstairs watching the affair, shouting, "Run along, jenny wren!" in slurring German, before practically stumbling up to a locked door. Key on the wrist admits the passage into a musty office, the sort of place someone probably uses for trysts.
"Get in," he hisses sidelong. "You shoot me and none of your friends leave alive, and the Osties learn Peggy Carter is in town. The French girl sees to that, and I can only keep her on a chain if she's recruited to me. Not you."
Once through the door, Coulson's demeanor changes. No longer the hedonistic German ready to enjoy a night of fellatio and fondling; it happens once the club proper is no longer in view. All business now, his hand is finally removed from the jacket pocket to reveal, indeed, he was packing. However, with a 'click', the magazine is ejected from the bottom, and both pieces of the gun are set aside.
"Things were getting awfully hot down there," he offers. "Sorry for making the threat, but it was the only way to get you pulled out." His eyelids flutter for a moment, as if a part of him wishes he were still down there on the dance floor. "That… woman… in the dress, is wearing some sort of poison on her neck." Suddenly, as if pulled back to the here and now, he moves over toward the office desk. "I'm afraid it may not be long before my people are punching each other just to get past her garter belt."
"Forget whatever you've got for ID. I know your papers are probably shit. Giacomo Something or Petr Weiss," Jorg says as he walks back to a desk and leans against it, palm down for balance. Liquid is probably not much of a problem for him, when it comes to the alcohol, or he has a hollow leg. "Poison," he mutters. "Shit, do I look like the village medic, whipping up antitoxins? You Americans." He blows out air through his teeth and pulls open a drawer, scrubbing through dozens of different paraphernalia for things that might be accounting related. He comes up with a few pens and shakes them up. "Sit down in the chair. Whom the hell are you, really? Show me something to name yourself and we'll go from there."
Forget the fancy French pen, he twists open one of the ink ones and loads up a vial from inside the kit. Hey, they have to replace their ink every so often and maybe he writes once in a blue moon.
"Hugo Stiglitz," Coulson offers, but he's already smirking. "And yeah. It's bullshit. I'm not here to mince words." He ends up at the desk, and sits down into the chair as requested. "As for showing you something, do you seriously think I'd have managed to cross the border twice if there was anything telling on my person? No, my friend, I'm afraid you're gonna have to go with instinct on this one. What I can tell you is…" He turns to look toward the dirty windows, through which one cannot even make out the dance floor below. "I've enough assets down there to turn this place into a graveyard." He looks back toward Jorg, smiling in a lopsided way. "You know it, too. You could smell it. I could see it from across the room."
He makes a gesture with his hand. "I'm here about the defector. I think you know who I'm talking about. My team wasn't able to get him out because there was… interference. He's jammed up in the East now, and the damn clock is ticking. I understand you may be able to help with that." Phil gestures once more, palm open, a sign of peace. "I'd like to know what it is you're looking for in return."
"Not likely. He's about five foot seven, drives an Opel, and likes Luckies a little too much. You smell the wrong way. So again," Jorg says simply, "I ask you whom you really are. Because, bucko, you know the one-upmanship? It works with the Soviets. The balance of power, the nuclear warheads pointed everywhere. Keeps the brittle peace. I, however, am not the USSR. You can call me Israel, or Ethiopia, or South Africa. I am the neutral party, the outside power. Now you say you can turn this place into a graveyard and I can point out you already did that to your last asset on the Friedrichstrasse train tracks." He's no one's fool, this one, as he gives the barrel of the pen a good little tap. The nib is worn with use and the ink flows down from the vessel gestured in it.
"Let's not let work get in the way of a little pleasure. You tell me your defector is trapped in the east." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, medium brown hair flopping across his eyes. "Nein, he's in the west and useless to you. Man missing half his skull has that problem, doesn't he? You had best be sitting still for this, it's going to sting. Close your eyes. Try not to inhale, it's stingy." And he depresses the back of the pen, spring jamming down into the vacuum sealed capsule. The puff of air sprays out the ink as a splatter of fine droplets, though oddly they're a somewhat soft blue aerosol like Windex. There's not actual dye in there, really.
|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d100 for: 67
"For now," Coulson answers. "But -" He's cut short at the man's next words, and narrows his eyes slightly. He doesn't close them, but he does try to keep from inhaling. The thought does cross his mind that he may have been betrayed, which leads to the next thought - it would be somewhat beneficial to sweep his palm across the table and jam Jorg's nose up into his skull. However, as he so eloquently pointed out, he does have a team downstairs capable of raising hell. So, for this one, he waits it out, looking to see what happens next. Even if it stings a little.
The astringent scent will burn its way up the nose anyways. It no more bothers the skin than does said window cleaner, though the fragrance might punch someone on their arse for proximity and keep them down for a good ten minutes or so. Opening up ammonia capsules to waken the swooning starlet at a show comes with less of an eye-watering price than that.
Peppery yellow down appears upon Phil's shirt and collar a moment later, though seeing this from his current predicament may be rather difficult. Jorg can, however. He makes no particular expression at that, though the way he holds himself seems to anticipate the need to ram the pointed tip of his pen right through Coulson's open palm, just as a measure of 'hey friends, aren't we?' messaging.
"You've been had by the Soviets," he says flatly. "Worse than you know. The entire place is probably peppered and if she's got the game in motion, you're getting me aboard a plane for London tonight." He grits his teeth and immediately withdraws to a rickety stand full of various supplies, ranging from a wine crate that probably hasn't carried bottles for days to a jug for dish soap. He pushes around through them. "You twats really haven't got a clue. Vaunted SHIELD intelligence. There's an assassin in my club. You've been trying to schmooze up a murderess, I hope you appreciate that. And she's got her prints all over you. Now why would she be here, if not for you? I doubt that bint came shopping. "
An expression is given; a scrunching of the nose, a momentary, open mouthed reaction to the pungent odor. "Ugh. Well, thank you for that," he says drily, before leveling out his expression to listen to what Jorg has to say. "I know what she's here for," he answers after a moment. Yes, the assassin is in the hands of Nick and Bucky. God help them.
Jorg's eyes move to his collar. Phil reaches up with a free hand to touch his collar, and after pulling them away, he looks toward his fingertips curiously. "If we've been had," he asks, "then what you are telling me is, there is no train? No conspiracy?" He lifts an eyebrow. "I find it hard to believe they would go to that much effort just to get their hands on some kind of wayward item."
Jorg shoves a phone across the desk, pointing at the handset. "Call your people. Arrange the flight immediately. Templehof, dawn, pre-dawn if you can get the clearance. Pull strings, make this clear. Do you have any idea the risk we're running if you have an operative of her calibre on the ground? Fuck the Stasi, this goes to the apex of the Soviet pyramid." He'll sweep up the gun that was dismantled earlier if he can, yanking it out of the way. Jovial Jorg is not, the brief patina of a louche crumpling. "SHIELD knows shit all about the Soviet high ops, what goes on in Voronezhskiy or Tambov Oblast. The agents who know won't turn, the informants who could tell end up gutted in a river. They pick 'em for loyalty and program them to ensure they behave."
He jerks his hand again at the phone. "Call them. Get me audible confirmation and then I tell you what the hell you've gotten me in to. They don't unleash one of her kind unless senior command wants everyone dead, and you led her up to the back door. I'm saving your life and your people's life before she makes it a graveyard. The timetable has changed, they're going to be moving out their assets in the morning and I sure for shit don't intend to be here when they do."
With a steady demeanor, Coulson doesn't make a move to stop any of Jorg's actions. Every moment that passes, he is learning something. Finally, he does in fact reach out to collect the handset, a polite smile upon his face.
A number is dialed. It's designed to be used once. It is scrambled on the other end, and as soon as the connection is severed, the line will be rendered useless.
"This is Stiglitz. Sunrise is coming sooner than you think. I will need to arrange a flight from West Berlin. I believe you have my account information on file? Yes, of course. If you can manage, Templehof would be ideal. It would be First Class." Here the pause between such a one sided conversation becomes much longer. "That's correct. First Class, or no sale. Yes, of course. I'll have you provide the ticket number to my assistant here."
At this point, Coulson lowers the receiver. "Everything is arranged," he tells Jorg, before offering the phone to him. His confirmation, of course, waits on the other line, however before he allows Jorg to take the phone, he pulls it back. "My firearm, please?" He smiles in a manner that shows slight bemusement. "Sorry, I'm… rather attached to it."
The point of memorizing the number isn't there. For all Jorg knows, Coulson is calling a bakery and putting in a request. The proof will be in the telling, but then that always is. He pats the phone when the call is complete, and he pushes it gently to the side of the desk.
"Good. Then here will be your salvation. Your agents down there are facing an asset of the Soviet government in a program orchestrated by the German scientists your military failed to fully sweep up at the end of the war." In their lexicon, there can be only one. "They train girls as agents provocateuses. Provocateurs, in your parlance." Showing off the command of French should be no surprise there, though the words are measured. "They weaken men, in particular, though both sexes are valid targets. Through guile, their skills, and a good many cheats, they insinuate themselves into their target's personal space and murder them, typically. Framing them for crimes occasionally or waiting until their KGB executioner counterparts show up to do the work. They've been twigged to work with the Winter Soldier program. You want the specifics, I've got the film along with your turned assets from Helsinki to Atlanta. They've been operating mostly over here, but one of them is in my fucking club."
He may pet the gun. He may be prone to throwing it back at Coulson. Maybe he'll discharge it into his face, the latter unlikely. He carries that clearly knowing what to do with it, and respectful.
"Let's do some quick calculations. I've got no doubt her targets. You. Me. The cyclops. Especially with the boy they use as a nuclear fucking option in play, yes, we've all heard about that. Assets are crawling around the border, and I guarantee you if they make a move, we've got a potential invasion by gung-ho GDR and Soviet tanks happy to make a demonstration of West Berlin the way they did Budapest. That's their default setting every morning. So you add to the mix they've got a warehouse full of children slated for deportation to somewhere in the Motherland, for the good of the Rodina, the black soil and endless sky, and I am concerned, agent. They weren't due for a week. The antics at the train station pushed that up to somewhere around four, five AM. And here's the problem, we know they've got designated three places, but your man who knew for total certainty which one they'd use has a bullet in his fucking head. I have very good authority one of the three will be used, but with the jack up of the shootout in the OK Corral down there, I cannot tell you which. You're going to have to choose or find some way and you've got four fucking hours to get it right."
"Seems we have a mutual problem on our hands," Coulson tells Jorg. "This assassin of yours? Odds are she won't be leaving your club any time soon. If we don't deal with it inside, then we deal with it outside, which draws attention to this little operation you have going on here, and that's something I'm sure you'd like to avoid. So…" He leans forward then, resting his arms on the table. "You help me make a choice, I help you rid yourself of this little problem." He angles an eyebrow. "Choose quickly. If we are up here for…" He pauses, angling his wrist to take stock of his wristwatch. "Any more than one minute, my people are gonna get antsy. Let's not turn your den of inequities into another Hiroshima."
"You're not going to do that. You don't have the intel you need and your people don't have a decent idea of what they sit on. For all they know, she planted every KGB agent as a guest in here, and you're surrounded." Jorg gives a very thin look, not fully a smile. "So. Choices. You Americans and your choices."
At this, Coulson laughs. A slight chuckle. "Choices, yes."
Pushing the chair back, he rises and checks the time, even going so far as to watch the second hand ticking away. "Sometimes, Jorg? Time can be as much enemy as ally. The question is, how fast do we want it to move." He looks back toward the fellow with a sidelong expression.
"We do fly by the seat of our pants, sometimes."
With a surprisingly quick motion, he reaches down and into his other jacket pocket, producing a much smaller pistol. Of course the one offered wasn't his only weapon. His arm darts quickly, and two bullets are fired into the windows of the office, shattering them.
Those were perfectly nice windows. Now they are broken, toothy frames on the second floor of the building, leading down to a rather open street not far from the Berlin Wall. All in all, Jorg looks outright irritated. The housekeeping bills in West Berlin are probably atrocious.
"Fine," he says bluntly. "Now what are you playing at? Jumping out the window like a cowboy?" He's already fetching his coat.
"Distraction," answers Coulson. Weapon in hand, he's already moving for the door. "If the place is crawling with KGB, that oughta get someone's attention." He motions for Jorg to take the lead. This is his club, after all, and this just became an extraction. "I'll cover you." Bucky and Fury might just be on their own.
|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d20 for: 14
Distraction works well enough. The gentleman sighs as he buttons up his coat and gives a good pull of the chair over to the window. He leaves it in place; let them wonder. "Come on. Out the back door, staff area." That means flipping his hat over to show the dingy knit, forgettable. They can make their quick work that way, skimming along the upper mezzanine behind the colonnade where the various watchers and couples gathered on the few couches that way. He's hardly exciting, pulling Coulson by the collar or the cuff for a tryst of sorts. They know to mind their manners wherever people of different pairings go.
The route down the stairs is forgettable and they duck past the ashtrays on the mirrored side bar. Two turns pull them right into the tiny kitchen and the adjacent coat room where staff house their belongings, lockers scarred up from their evacuation from a train station somewhere. It's not much to speak of but they both emerge out into the dark, chilly night.
Shooting out the windows is also a clue to Coulson's SHIELD counterparts; should they come looking, it's a tell tale sign that Phil and Jorg have gone to ground.
Once they're outside, Phil moves ahead to take the lead. His eyes remain watchful; there may be a SHIELD car nearby, but using it might be too risky. For now, he's casing the area, looking for any signs of trouble. Ultimate goal? Hail a taxi.
Hopefully no one watches the front of the building too closely or the gig is up before it began. Jorg shows no real rush as he walks down the sidewalk, favouring a purposeful stride that cuts into an allee littered with detritus from other lives: a bit of foil, graffiti, posters. No trash. The Germans clean it out. This close to the Wall, the risk cannot be tolerated. Onwards they head through the warrens, the old buildings growing slightly more classical than they were closer to the River Spree. Forget vehicles, he's happiest on foot where mobility enforces a kind of freedom.
Nothing quite stands out as odd, but then the party district is still tense, the glamour faded into tense obscurity. The man moves ahead slightly, not really impressing that they're at all together. "Where, exactly, are you headed?"
"To call for a car," answers Phil. "Then we're getting the hell out of here." He steps out onto the street then, and immediately makes for a cab stand where a handful of German taxis await.
"And /where/?" Jorg isn't stupid; he has questions and expectations of an answer. "You got boots on the ground? Get someone going to the Jungle Club. Won't be open much longer than that. Tell the coat girl that he's there to pick up number thirty-one. Needs to be a man, you send a girl and it won't get you anywhere. Find a phone. You are going to need to keep on your damn feet. I can get myself to Templehof, but I don't know which of the three spots you need to clear. I know only where and I am not taking you to each of them with two pieces and a bratwurst, you gather? Fall back wherever you people fall back when things go hot. I'm not risking being pulled by the Stasi or another of those cheap provocateuses."