Point of Contact

January 19, 2016:

Black Widow and Stylus meet up with Nani Al'Shahera to pick up 'intel'.



NPCs: Nani Al'Shahera (played by Zakura)



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The flight to Genosha sucks. There's just no other way about it, except perhaps for superhumans who can get there on their own power. SHIELD doesn't have limitless funds so there's only so far you can fly in Business class before one has to switch to private planes- and not sexy Gulfstreams, mind, but turboprop light cargo vehicles that are the only surefire way to get over some of the mountain ranges. There's one last transfer to a 'skimmer', a cargo ship that flies low over the water like a pelican, and then two very cramped SHIELD agents disembark on the docks, late at night and with prying eyes otherwise inattentive.

"They didn't pack you a lunch?" Reginald asks Natasha, shaking out some cramps as he tugs along a golf bag and a ragged old suitcase that's seen better days. Wearing grubby clothing and with a ballcap pulled on his face, his darkling beard and thin appearance makes him look more like he's a refugee fleeing the near Middle East than an agent investigating the dangerous island-nation.

"She packed me… chicken sandhich, carrot slices, some grapes, ooh! Go-gurt," he exclaims, digging in the lunchbox flopping around by a shoulderstrap. He waggles the plastic tube at Natasha. "I didn't even think one could still /get/ Go-Gurt. I love these. Best invention to come out of America since kool-aid," he says.

Now, Natasha Romanoff is not actually necessarily prevented from flying to most countries. Her passport often shows no red flags to customs officials, for example. It might set up a few dozen flags to some other agencies, but that's why it's Natalie Rushman, executive assistant for a wealthy Dubai banker, who flew to Genosha. She even has different fingerprints and large gold sunglasses.

"Go-Gurt," she murmurs with a little grin. "Will wonders never cease? I like string cheese, myself. For trips like this, I have protein bars. And a hard-boiled egg, but I ate that in Nairobi."

She's ambling along casual as can be, dragging a lightweight purple Samsonite carry-on with one and and stretching the other arm high and around. In cargo pants and an oversized khaki shirt over a tank top, she still manages to look elegant and glamorous. Not shabby: deshabille.

Reginald— 'Ryander' for the nonce— gabs happily with Natasha as the two of them head towards their point of contact. Just two more refugees, nothing to see here, folks. The golf bag looks like a vessel of last resort, battered and dinged up and unreinforced in the last tactical way possible. And his suitcase must have seen some time either on the Titanic or as a pet shelter.

Once they make it to their hovel, Reggie opens the door and heads inside, his eyes— currently a deep brown— flickeringly alert. He moves to the far end of the apartment in a standard sweep and clear, a hand tucked to the small of his back where a tiny Glock is concealed.

He enters the bathroom, vanishing, then appears and nods at Natasha. He tugs his earlobe meaningfully. "I think I'll take a shower, darling," he says, moving back into the bathroom and cranking the water up to high scorching heat.

What an odd couple they make, it's certain. But with pleasant banter and perfectly believable smiles, they make their way to their… lodging. It's a nice word. It probably doesn't have bedbugs, because it's mostly international travelers who carry bedbugs. It's not glamorous, but the life of spy generally isn't. Sometimes, you don't even get a roof to sleep under.

Natasha slings her suitcase onto one of the beds, taking the moment to stretch and stifle a yawn. Even she's stiff after hours of flying and waiting and flying some more. But she catches that ear-tug and inclines her head just a bit, pulling out her smartphone and idly toying with it. Leaning against the wall next to the bathroom, she's starting up some very non-standard apps (hidden under icons for Angry Birds and Triple Town) as she calls to her partner of convenience: "Sure you don't want some company, sweetheart?"

Ryander emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but his beard, peering at Natasha. "Wha?" he asks, around a mouthful of toothpaste. He points at his ear. "Couldn't 'ear oou, 'howerin'," he says. He shuts the door and the tone of the falling water changes, followed by a yelp and some cursing in Urdu. Gears squeak and the pitch shifts once more, and soon he's scrubbing away under the creakily dispensed water and singing a merry Irish drinking song to himself.

"Is that the pizza?" he calls through the door, hearing footsteps. There's the distinct sound of a slide being partially racked to make sure the gun is loaded, and the sound of brushing teeth stops.

Pizza being a euphamism for the woman bringing them the sensitive data they were sent here to collect.

It /is/ a mission, after all. Besides, who vacations in Genosha?

Sensitive data indeed.

Nani Al'Shahera was tasked with delivering the 'pizza' to the couple that long since checked into the hotel. Though, it really wasn't a pizza and she never knew what she carried could be called that. The woman was a smallish thing, possibly late fifties, early sixties, wrinkles lining her face rather nicely that accentuates the greying of her eyes, the only thing that was seen.

The knock itself was soft, her weak smallish hands lightly beating upon the wood, her eyes glancing back and forth as she takes a lean against the door with a slight huff of a breath, the satchel upon her back was something to be admired. Hand woven with bits of skinned wood and wicker, strings held on to her shoulder which seems to weaken by the moment. She says nothing, hearing the sounds from inside, her head twisting left and right as she takes a step back, reaching deep within her burka…

Natasha — Natalie? — looks Ryander up and down, apparently not stopping or even pausing in her review of the troops. Ah. It's not the "we need to have a conversation and this place is bugged so let's use the old rushing water trick" tug of the ear. It's the "I need a shower" tug of the ear. They're so similar.

When there's a knock at the door, though, her head snaps up. Ambling over, she reaches for the doorknob with one hand and absently fiddles with her mobile's case with the other. It's one of those cases that has a little space inside for credit cards. It's funny that no one actually checked it at any point. Don't want to demagnetize the rich lady's credit cards, after all.

When she sees Nani, she smiles; when she sees her reaching into her voluminous garments, she frowns very slightly. Her thumb brushes over the little gold disc nestled in her cell phone case and her weight shifts ever so slightly.

"Can I help you?" There's just that tiny edge to her voice.

Ryander says something in Farsi— a short phrase that Nadia should recognize. He's at least got a towel on, for god's sake, and he holds both palms out towards the burka-clad woman, the pistol aimed carefully away. "If that pizza has bacon on it, you should know I am a virtuous man," he tells her in a casual tone, in English, the hard glint of his eyes suggesting that he's waiting for the proper countersign.

The older woman doesn't bear Natalie a look. A cloth was soon drawn from the elaborate robes, brought up to her nose to cover a sneeze that was tickling her old nose all day. She sniffles hard, her eyes opening to alight upon the rather gorgeous readhead, the man in the towel soon looked at with a look that only a lecherous old woman could produce, yet reserved as she was.

The sign was returned of course, and quietly she enters, her steps feather light so that no one would know that she was actually around. Or if she was being recorded. All of this is done in silence, for as she quietly places the bag upon the bed of the room, she gestures towards the window with a wrinkled and tired hand, like an ol' gypsy summoning spirits.

As in close the curtains!

There's just that mild easing in Natalie's stance, and her smile loses a bit of that… yes, edge. She steps aside to let the woman in, closing and latching the door behind her.

She closes the curtains, too; nothing odd about that. In a hole like this, nobody really wants to see what anyone else is doing. It might be worse than what they have planned.

Ryander glances at Natalie, nods, then looks back to Nadia. "It's safe," he tells the burka-clad woman. "You can relax, if you like. I'll be a minute. Make yourself comfortable. Nats, this is our new friend, who has yet to introduce herself for some reason." He waves his free hand negliently at the introductions and heads back into the bathroom.

"Oh, Nat— the clay plates in my suitcase. They're for her," he says, gesturing to Nadia. He vanishes back into the bathroom and resumes his ablutions and dressing himself.

It's best for Ryander to go and put his pants on, frankly. It could shock the impressionable. Natashalie nods her assent, frowning a little when she heads over to the bag and starts lifting the plates out. "Just what are these?" she calls into the bathroom. Probably too much rushing water to hear her, of course. That's what he'll say. In this, as in many other things, the Widow doesn't like being kept in the dark.

Nani didn't disrobe until the curtains were down, her fingers grasping the hood of her burka to draw it back, tugging down the veil to reveal her features. In her youth; she was quite the looker. Arabic, skin smooth as a baby bottom with an almond colored skin as well as the eyes to match it's shape. Even as she was now, she still retained those good looks, fitting for someone who was once Moussad. It was clear that she retained the knowledge, as well as the ins and outs of the spy game.

"Everything you need is in these bags.." The cloth was soon lifted, pressed against her nose so that she could sneeze and sniff, then carefully dabs. The bag was soon unzipped, the soft sounds of the old woman sniffing as she flips open the top to unzip another compartment which the 'package' was kept, drawn out in a small white box and settled upon the clothes that the two would soon wear to blend further in to the economical hell-hole that was.

As Natalie? retrieved the plates, the woman soon steps back, taking those little steps forward to capture the plates with frail yet expert fingers, soon tucked beneath her arm and hood drawn on, mask soon fitted into place. The wicker case was going to be left behind, for the plates were soon shoved up into her burka unceremoniously beneath her legs with a twist.. a grunt.. a snap and a wide eyed stare.. and then a relaxed gaze as she moves effortly from the room with no further fuss.

And that's how Moussad rolls.

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