2010-09-04: A Sheep In Were Clothing




September 4, 2010


Ferihegy International — Budapest, Hungary


Jason: There’s werewolves?

Sookie: Yes.

Jason: Holy shit. Bigfoot, is he real too?

Sookie: I don’t know. I guess it’s possible.

Jason: Santa?

Danika emerges from her plane and stretches her long frame. It is nice working for a client who will pay for first class, though. Truly. The damn corporates are cheap in addition to everything else. Dani's wearing a pair of tired looking jeans, and a wrap blouse, and her hair is tied back in a very casual pony tail. It's been a long flight.

She looks around the airport and hugs herself with an air of breathless excitement. And why shouldn't she be? The life she's wearing now? A German-American descendant of displaced Hungarian Germans, back to her ancestral homeland to rediscover her roots. Liesl Hahn is at that point in her life, when her children are grown, the husband is divorced, and it's time to rediscover who she is. And if that process involves meeting interesting younger men? Well, so be it. Liesl/Danika heads to the baggage claim area to pick up her bags.

Gonc — Hungary

A Few Days Ago

The stone hallways of the manor are cold, the stone never did hold much heat in, especially in a place as old at this. It's been rumored that the house had been used by Count Vlad Dracul himself during a campaign. This might be the reason why it's still standing instead of being torn down in favor of something more modern. That and the fact that the owner has a twisted fondness for the lower levels.

The study looks completely void of life. The fire in the hearth crackles and radiates a lovely warmth that attracts a dingy dressed older man. A man carrying a letter. As he approaches the armchair that faces toward the fire, his steps take a quieter, more cautious pace.

"Master, there is a letter." While most butlers dress in suits, the Hungarian peasant class is rather poor and the owner doesn't like to waste his money on frivolities that would very likely be ruined by someone who doesn't bathe regularly. Rather than serving the stationary on a little silver plate, fingerless gloves stretch out, trembling.

A well manicured hand reaches out and plucks the envelope from the old man's hands and disappears once again behind the thick cushion of the chair. "Well, this is excellent news. Send a man to Budapest, there is someone I would like for him to meet."

Budapest — Hungary


At the baggage cart, there's an older gentleman, though gentleman might be a loose term to describe him. His yellow and brown stained teeth are shown in an all too friendly smile as Liesl approaches the cart. "Help to carry your bags?" His accent is thick, from the mountains. He's quite poorly dressed and looks to be doing this sort of manual labor in exchange for a few coins. Possibly to be spent on a meal or some sort of grain alcohol… one can't be too certain.

Danika smiles a typical American smile - perfect teeth, probably adjusted with braces, then bleached whiter than white - at the man. "Oh no thank you sir. I travel light." She speaks to him in English, assuming that was the language he gave her. She does travel light. Just one checked backpack, and not all that large either, plus her purse. Liesl is, after all, a professional traveler. A paralegal and expert in contract-negotiations, according to any dossier likely to be dug up on her. Brown eyes (contacts), brown hair, eyebrows, and (should anyone check) other body hair (temporary dye) and a set of fingerprints that will back that up, at least until she peels the thin layer of impressed gortex from her palms. She picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. "However, if you could direct me to the ladies' room…"

"No no, please to be helping you with bag?" The old man reaches out one fingerless glove toward the woman, attempting to pull the bag off her shoulder. As he approaches, Liesl can smell the acrid scent of old cigarette, booze, and coffee, laced with thick undertones of body odor. The man is repulsive through and through. "I carry good bag?"

From around the other side of the luggage cart, a younger looking gentleman furrows his eyebrows and looks toward the scene. He's tall, handsome in an unconventional sense, and very ell dressed. His curly black hair is slicked with gel to keep it from springing everywhere. This man is dressed in a business class suit complete with black leather gloves and a fancy cane. "Excuse me, madame," his accent is refined and smooth. As he travels toward the pair, he tosses the cane up a little higher in his grip and taps the silver ball end on the old man's shoulder. "Let go of her bag before I beat you soundly."

Danika quirks an eyebrow at the rather antique style of her rescuer. Who carries a cane in the 21st century that doesn't have a sword in it? And who wears gloves indoors? Liesl is not going to look gift-rescuers in the mouth though. Not yet, at least. "Gentlemen, please. I don't need my bag carried. All I need is a bathroom." Some urgency in that statement. A change of stance. The beginnings of that 'my bladder is full' dance. Liesl is uncomfortable. This could go very bad very quickly. The wolf that is Danika's inner self stirs inside her, makes a note of how the old man's throat is exposed, and where the nearest exit is, and recalls the layout of the airport from the maps she studied before she caught this flight. Then it lays its head back down to rest, and to watch idly.

A small tug of his right eyebrow has the gentleman motioning in the direction of a little sign overhead that points the way to the restrooms. "It is that way, madame." He gives her a quick twitch of a smile before moving back to hisplace at the luggage carousel.

The old man grumbles in his native language and stalks off in another direction. Likely to find another tourist or two to bother for spare change.

Danika smiles. "Thank you." Typical American, really. She calls no-one sir. Liesl is like that. She heads off to the bathroom and avails herself of a stall for a small fee. Therein, she unzips her backpack and exchanges her purse for the duplicate of it that is in there. The one that can't pass through security. The one with the gun in it, among other things. She checks to make sure the rest of her pack has the things she ordered in it, and everything appears to be in order. Having a government agency smuggle your bags onto a plane? Handy, but check their work.

She does her business, freshens up, and re-emerges from the ladies room perhaps ten minutes later. A casual glance around the room - at least it looks casual - for either of the two men is in order. So sayeth the wolf.

When the woman emerges, neither man is anywhere in sight. There are still a few people milling about but most of them are in the little airport shops or outside taking the last of the cabs.

That is when Danika spots him, the curly haired gentleman. He's loading his luggage into what looks to be the last taxi in the bay. It's an older style of car, a Yugo, definitely not the safest of vehicles but it's economical.

Danika frowns. Liesl was hoping for adventure and meeting interesting younger men, it's true, but from choice, preferably in the hotel bar, not forced to share a cab ride, and like any American survivor of the Bush years, she's a bit paranoid of foreigners, when it comes down to it. But. What alternative is there? Of course, the wolf that is Danika eyes the cab and the curly-haired man, and the other man who is disappeared, counts her bullets, and wonders how hard it will be to dispose of the bodies. It could be innocent enough. Or it could be that her other identity, Carol Lundgrin, CIA operative, that she had reactivated, has already borne fruit. And the ways to find out are limited. The wolf decides to play along, but her sleep time is over for now.

Danika hurries to the cab. "Excuse me. Would you mind sharing this cab?" she asks the curly haired man. "Perhaps I could buy you a drink at my hotel to thank you for helping me?" She does give the cabby a glance, juuust to make sure he's not the old drunk who first accosted her. That'd be. Well it'd be sloppy, for starters. And sloppy enemies are the worst kind.

The young man narrows one eye at the woman for a long moment puckering his lips to one side as he considers. "Where are you going? I don't wish to travel out of my way." The trunk is slammed as the last of the gentleman's luggage is loaded in.

The cabby, an unshaven and portly man of about fortly, pulls the stub of a thick cigar from his jacket pocket and places it between his teeth. He light it with a few puffs, the curls of smoke rising into the air and disappearing in the light breeze. He says something in Hungarian to the other gentleman who chuckles and raises a finger for him to hold a moment.

Then the gentleman turns back to Danika and lofts both his eyebrow skyward, waiting for an answer.

Danika says, "Danubius hotel, it's not far from here. Just further than I want to walk at this hour." Liesl smiles. "Please?" She doesn't give him the lean to show more cleavage, and she doesn't smile too saucily. That's not the way she wants to play this. Not yet, at least. The wolf murmurs to herself mostly about it being easier to use men when she was younger, but doesn't say anything more."

Giving a frustrated sigh and a liberal roll of his eyes, the young man turns sharply to the cab driver and quips a few quick words to him. Averting his eyes back to Danika, he gives her a bare wisp of a smile and stalks to the rear of the vehicle to begin unloading this things.

When all three of his suitcases are once again on the sidewalk, he politely motions to the cab and bows his head. "The motor transport is yours madame. Enjoy." He gives the cabby an upward nod and says a few small phrases in Hungarian before laughing along with him. "Farewell Madame, perhaps we shall see each other again sometime."

Danika smiles. "Thank you, sir." Well okay, she can use the word. When someone earns it, apparently. "I'll send the cab back for you as fast as I can. Thank you again." 'So,' says the wolf. 'The cabbie, or this is all what it appears to be.' She loads her backpack into the trunk and climbs into the back seat. "Danubius Hotel, please." she says. Liesl believes. Liesl isn't a spy. Liesl is sure that this man has just been incredibly generous with her. A second time. "And thank you so much." she says to the curly haired man.

Budapest — Hungary

Three Hours Later

The curly haired man is still standing on the side of the road with all three suitcases when the next international flight from New York arrives. It's a crisp evening, not too cold, thankfully his gloves keep him warm enough. His breath comes out in little clouds that disperse before his next breath out.

Further down the sidewalk, the old man in fingerless gloves helps a little old woman to cross the barren street. She seems amicable enough and gives him a few coin for his troubles. The smile she is graced with is stained with nicotine and coffee, perhaps a few missing teeth. She's a kind woman though, and gives him a few more coins to help him find something warm.

A woman with brilliant red hair tucked under a fisherman's cap steps out onto the sidewalk beside the curly haired man. She carries no luggage, nothing to indicate that she was a traveler at all.

"Danubius hotel," the curly haired man utters in Hungarian. "She promised me a drink."


"Well aren't you the charmer… and here I thought I was the Victorious one," the red haired woman replies smoothly. Her tightened, square-shaped jaw gives her a hardness, while her girl-next-door dimples that form along her cheeks when she flashes him a brilliant smile only negate any success her jawline had achieved.

Her eyebrows rise atop her forehead rather expectantly as her arms cross over her chest before smoothly she steps to the curb and hails a cab. While doing so she looks over her shoulder, "I'm going to need to be reoutfitted." In more ways than one. "I've been in these clothes for nearly twenty-four hours."