Mission Implausible

Note from HQ:

As we have no desire to compromise the safety of our personnel, their real names are to remain undisclosed for the duration of Operation Zakarov. All undercover agents will be referred to as their given aliases henceforth. We hope you understand.

Perhaps the only thing more lavish than Sergei Zakarov’s garden is his appetite. 

Yesterday it was Indonesian beef tongues braised in sweet soy sauce, recalls Neon Ladybird as she assumes her usual spot by her employer’s right shoulder. What will it be today? Something that hails from a six-legged source in a Latin American jungle? An acquired taste from the Middle East?

Her most memorable (and grievous) account is of the old Russian chomping down on duck eggs boiled in urine. “Why, they simply taste like regular eggs,” he’d remarked after a good mouthful, flecks of too-yellow yolk adorning his mustache, “once you get used to the aroma.”

Let’s just say Neon Ladybird hadn’t gotten used to the aroma, and neither did the cleaner when he mopped up the mess she made on the patio. Can you blame her? It was either abandon her post or abandon her lunch at her post.

Neon whips her gag reflex into submission as a food trolley trundles onto the patio. Control yourself, she demands of her pharyngeal muscles. We don’t want a repeat of last time, do we? In an attempt to seek some measure of solace in these trying times, her gaze forages through the garden, Zakarov’s miniature paradise of exotic colors and aromas where the leaves are the same shade of green as a bank note.

Zakarov flashes Neon a worryingly-playful smile from his table. “Irina, why don’t you take a seat? You have protected me from all manner of bodily harm over the past year, and I want to treat you to breakfast.”

A thousand baby snakes slither down Neon’s spine, but by some miracle she maintains her composure. She summons her blacksmith-honed, polished-to-perfection Russian and replies, “As you wish, sir,” before taking the seat opposite Zakarov.

There is an indescribable discomfort in being acknowledged as a breakfast-table equal by her boss, but Neon has been through several hells and back just to get on his good side and she is not about to make a hash of things. So, she bundles all of this negative energy into a compact ball and locks it behind the stone-faced facade of Irina, the loyal bodyguard.

“Your breakfast, sir,” announces the servant as he sets the tray down. In the split second that his hand pauses to lift the lid and unleash an olfactory hell upon Neon’s nostrils, her time spent with Zakarov flashes before her eyes.

“The fat bastard’s exactly what you’d expect,” she’d flashed over the rooftops on the first night of her charade. “Looks like a pig, eats like one too.”

“That pig is one of the most dangerous creatures of the modern era,” came the reply. “You will inform us of his every move, or we’ll become the trough he eats from. Stay vigilant, Neon Ladybird.”

Neither she nor her commanders had acknowledged their unusual level of verbosity for a conversation in morse code.

Thus, Neon Ladybird had gunned down rival drug dealers, personally oversaw arms trafficking operations, and did not hesitate to interrogate that one poor government official torture-porn style, all at Zakarov’s behest. It was only a matter of time before she left his other bodyguards in a puddle of salty tears and ascended to the rank of guardian angel. That, and the most successful spy ever to infiltrate Sergei Zakarov’s shady schemes. 

I ought to be glad I’m having breakfast with him, decides Neon. Sleepy Rhino could never do what I do.

It’s just like her commanders to send a second spy to maximize intel, but Sleepy Rhino might as well have stayed at Headquarters. He’d gotten caught sharing a bed with Zakarov’s daughter (taking “protection” a bit too far), and Zakarov only let it slide because she genuinely had a good time. I wish you’d stop faffing about, Sleepy. It’s a bloody miracle he hasn’t been caught yet.

“After you, Irina,” insists Zakarov as he gestures to their breakfast.

Somehow, the metal lid had been spirited away without Neon noticing. The servant leaves the patio, and there, lurking on the center plate, is a massive, steaming pile of…

...crumpets.

Sergei Zakarov’s mighty guffaw rips through the garden, jolting Neon out of her slack-jawed stare. A flock of birds flees overhead while a peach evacuates a nearby tree.

“What’s wrong, Irina? Pussycat got your tongue?”

“No, sir. I’m just… pleasantly surprised.”

“Then dig in. My gift to you, for your enduring loyalty. I thought I might adorn my table with something more… kind to your palate.”

While Neon goes numb from the shock of seeing something edible on the table, her employer lathers the first of many helpings in jam and butter before shoving the entire greased-up lump of British scrumptiousness under his mustache. His jowls inflate, chipmunk-style, as he munches away.

The surreality of the moment might just kill Neon. She absently wonders whether there’s such a thing as being trusted too much.

That’s when a sudden rustling in one of the orchid patches saves her. Seven years at the academy and five in the field have familiarized her with many irreplaceable concepts, such as the art of killing a man with a single punch and how to craft a proximity mine from household objects.

But at this very moment, nothing could have prepared her better than being able to tell the crucial difference between standard orchid bush-rustling and suspicious orchid bush-rustling. Since it is obviously the latter, Neon doesn’t waste a heartbeat to politely excuse herself from the table, march through the garden and extract the mysterious trespasser from the leaves.

“Well done, Irina,” remarks Zakarov as he dabs at his lips with a napkin. “See, this is why you are the only woman I require at my side.”

With the aid of a diamond-solid headlock, Neon drags the poor soul over to the patio. An assassin sent by the local government, no doubt, or one of Zakarov’s equally-unscrupulous competitors. The old Russian will answer for his crimes one day—until then, he is not permitted to die.

But Neon only pulls the balaclava off of their peeping garden gnome to reveal an all-too familiar face. A face that softens in childlike sheepishness as it acknowledges Neon. Bloody hell, Sleepy Rhino. I knew you’d be the one to make a hash of things.

“But I know your face!” exclaims Zakarov as realization pours into his eyes. “Irina, this is the one who stuck his quarg into my daughter’s pierogi!”

“Pleased to meet you,” says Sleepy in barely-passable Russian.

Neon sends him a What on God's green earth are you doing here? using a glance and an eyebrow contortion.

Sleepy replies with the most punchable grin in the history of mankind.

Zakarov licks his lips—whether it’s in malice or to mop up the butter-flavored gloss over them, Neon can’t say. “You feel those arms around you, traitor? Those are the arms of my top bodyguard, Irina. You have crossed me once, but to do so again, and during the sacred hours of breakfast, no less? The only sin more grievous is to eat pizza using a fork and knife.”

Neon shivers at the thought, and even Sleepy tenses in her arms.

“Dispose of him, Irina,” commands Zakarov with an air of crumpet-fuelled impatience. “And we can return to more pressing matters.”

The last thing Neon wants is to surrender her dignity to Sleepy’s puppy-dog eyes, but it happens anyway. “Sir, perhaps I should interrogate him first. It may be useful to know who he’s working for.”

Zakarov inhales another crumpet. “There are somewhere between two and three-thousand organizations worldwide that either want me dead or want the password to my LinkedIn account, Irina. It does not concern me whose payroll he sprouted from, but what does is that he is intruding upon our quality time together. Kill him.”

Well, all it would take is a knife to the jugular, both of which are within arm’s reach of Neon. She’s this close to doing it, because that’s the sort of thing a pain in the arse like Sleepy Rhino deserves.

Then she gets an idea. “At once, sir. I’ll take him somewhere out of sight. Wouldn’t want to ruin your appetite.”

Zakarov’s face creases into a smile. “Irina, you have been by my side long enough to know that if a bowl of deep-fried tarantulas doesn’t make me feel ill, why should a few drops of blood on my patio? And do you recall that time I had those lovely eggs and you—”

“Vividly, sir.”

“Then you understand that my stomach doesn’t give in so easily!” Zakarov gestures to the mound of crumpets. “Nothing will stop me from demolishing these. The British might not know how to season their food, but their baked goods are the stuff of legend.” Another crumpet gets vaporized. “Slit his throat and be done with it. I don’t have all day.”

Beads of sweat flee Neon’s pores. What now? If only she enrolled in “On the spot excuses for not killing your dunce of a coworker 101” at the academy.

That class was full, unfortunately.

Sleepy strains against Neon’s hold, so she reasserts her grip with a forcefulness that says, Don’t test me.

“My… uh… my knife, sir,” she attempts.

“You mean the specially-issued combat knife you keep on your person at all times to better protect me?” asks Zakarov as he murders a crumpet, leaving jam at the crime scene. “What about it?”

“I… I may have misplaced it, sir.”

“Irina, are you saying that the specially-issued combat knife you keep on your person at all times to better protect me isn’t on your person as we speak?”

“Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Of course, the specially-issued combat knife she keeps on her person at all times to better protect him is in fact on her person as they speak, but Zakarov can’t possibly know that from his angle. It bulges accusingly against Neon’s thigh.

Sleepy relaxes in her grip. If you survive this, I’m killing you anyway.

After a brief silence contemplating Neon’s answer, Zakarov unleashes another thunderclap of laughter into the sky.

A heartbeat later, a pair of burly men brandishing assault rifles bursts onto the patio. “Boss? Are you alright?”

“Stand down, boys,” chuckles Zakarov as he flicks a golden tear out of his eye. “I’ve never been better, can’t you see?”

“The Boss was just having a laugh,” explains Neon.

“Oh,” say the men in unison, firearms flopping to their sides. “We thought that was the intruder alarm. It’s hard to tell them apart.”

“Speaking of intruders,” says Zakarov as another crumpet ceases to exist, “Irina over here just nabbed one. Today happens to be one of her elusive bad days where she forgets to bring a knife, so perhaps one of you would be so kind as to lend her one.”

“Why, of course,” obliges one of the men—who proceeds to hand Neon the tiniest knife she has ever seen.

She feels Sleepy tremble as she scrutinizes the itty-bitty monstrosity in her free palm. She concludes that being tickled to death would be preferable.

Zakarov belches, gracing the atmosphere with the essence of breakfast paired gorgeously with morning breath. “You may proceed, Irina.”

Oh dear. I’m fresh out of excuses.

Or am I?

“On second thought, sir,” begins Neon, “perhaps a bullet to the head might be better. It’s faster, less of a hassle, and won’t leave as much of a mess.”

“Out of the question,” snaps Zakarov. “You know how I despise loud noises. Hence why the intruder alarm in the villa is simply a looped recording of me laughing instead of something harsh.”

If irony could kill, this is mass murder. “Which is why I’ll shoot him somewhere far, far away and behind soundproof walls,” finishes Neon. “Somewhere you won’t be disturbed, sir.”

Zakarov seems to mull it over as his cheeks bulge and contort. The possibilities are endless once Neon gets Sleepy out of the crime lord’s radar. Ideally, she’d smuggle her colleague to safety, then claim to have been outwitted by him. Zakarov wouldn’t be pleased, but what’s one tiny blemish on an otherwise spotless record? Please, please, PLEASE disregard all the logical fallacies in my argument and let me leave.

“I cannot find a single logical fallacy in your argument,” decides Zakarov. “You may go.”

Neon might just start jumping for joy.

But then.

Then.

“Oh, but do take a crumpet with you,” insists Zakarov. “Knowing my habits, I’m not sure you will find any remaining upon your return. Ha!”

Neon’s arm is halfway to the plate when Sleepy begins to struggle furiously in her grip. She’s forced to redirect all her strength into subduing this absolute nightmare of a fellow spy. I’m trying to save the both of us, can’t you see?

“Give her a hand, you two,” instructs Zakarov.

The two burly men begin to pace over, but Neon holds up a hand. “No, it’s fine. I have everything under control.”

Surprisingly, her trousers don’t burst into flames right there and then.

Note from HQ:

We believe in this instance that Neon Ladybird was alluding to a verse from a popular children’s song, “Liar liar pants on fire.” We hope this sheds some light onto the highly-complex thought processes undergone by our agents in the field.

She reaches out again, but then, from Sleepy’s constricted windpipe arrive the words, “Don’t… eat… crumpets.”

“What did he say?” asks Zakarov as he snuffs the life out of what is either his twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth crumpet (Unfortunately, even a spy as brilliant as Neon Ladybird can only keep track of so many crumpets devoured in one sitting).

“Nothing of note, sir,” replies Neon as she continues to make a lunge for the plate, heedless to her colleague’s red-faced request. I don’t know you, she silently tells him. You’re not a spy. You’re not a friend. You’re just a silly man that walked right into the lion’s crumb-laden piehole. I’m going to take you away and gently insert a bullet in between your eyes, and that’s how I’m going to save you. Understand, Sleepy Rhino?

As if in defiance, Sleepy glows with a surge of strength and bats Neon’s arm away before her fingers close around a hunk of cooked batter.

That’s it.

“I SHALL TAKE A CRUMPET FOR MYSELF WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT,” she bellows with all the pent-up rage of having to deal with this calibre of nonsense at six-thirty in the morning.

She gasps. The two burly men gasp. Goodness, what have I done? The Boss was just going on about how he doesn’t like loud noises and I’ve gone ahead and...

Oh no. He’s staring at me. His mouth is open. He’s gone completely speechless, that’s how disappointed he is. I’m the real traitor to his trust here!

And then Zakarov keels over, face-planting into his breakfast. It takes seventy-six seconds for everyone on the patio to conclude that most people can’t immerse themselves in a pile of crumpets for that long without coming up for air.

“Poison,” realizes Neon, the shock of it making her drop Sleepy. She turns to the two burly men. “Check on the cook. I’ll make sure the Boss is alright.”

The two burly men share a glance. “The cook is dead meat,” seethes one of them before they both hurry back inside.

Leaving two secret agents to wrap things up on the patio.

Neon sighs. “This was all you, wasn’t it?”

Sleepy props himself up against the table, one hand caressing his throat. “Yep.”

“Headquarters finally decided he was too dangerous to keep alive?”

“Yep.”

“And they gave you the order to take him out?”

“Yep.”

“So you watched from that orchid bush to make sure the poison took effect?”

“Yep.”

“But you didn’t expect him to offer me some crumpets, hence why you distracted me from eating by letting yourself get caught?”

“Yep.”

“And Headquarters didn’t inform me about any of this because…?”

“Because,” explains Sleepy as he nonchalantly grabs a crumpet from under a cheek flab and takes a bite out of it, “it’s not your job to be informed, Neon Ladybird. Your job is to stay by this man’s side and give him a false sense of security.”

Neon stares at her colleague in disbelief as he munches away.

“Don’t worry,” says Sleepy after he swallows. “I poisoned the jam.”

Neon feels like she might collapse any second now. She hobbles over and drapes her weary soul over the seat facing Zakarov. He looks more porcine than ever, half-buried in his trough like that. Bacon and crumpets, anyone?

“Time to bail,” says Sleepy. “Coming?”

“Just… give me a moment.”

When Neon looks up, she's alone on the patio. To think that a few minutes ago she was forced to pretend that she didn’t know Sleepy Rhino, just to save his life.

But did she ever really know him? At all?

Instead of wringing her brain dry ruminating on this series of absurdities she was put through before breakfast, Neon seeks the comfort of the nearest crumpet. She spreads butter over both faces of the creamy-brown disc before cutting off a slice and popping it into her mouth, the way these things are supposed to be eaten.

Mmm, she thinks as she chews away. These ARE the stuff of legend.