A few evenings later, I turned up at the Romford branch of Quantrell's Brasserie as arranged. Oddly, I felt nervous - more nervous than I had been with any other mission I'd embarked upon thus far. I wondered if it had anything to do with the mission that I couldn't remember... I soon pushed that thought out of my mind when I was shown through to Quantrell's office.

The office itself was bedecked with many a certificate and photograph - signs of a prosperous and legitimate 'business-owner' no doubt, and a cover for the people smuggling crime boss that I knew that he was. Several of the photographs even featured Quantrell himself with a myriad of celebrities that appeared to be seated in any number of Quantrell's Brasseries across London and Essex.

I was unprepared for my first glimpse of Quantrell as the photographs I'd already seen of him did not do him justice. Though he wore an expensive suit, he was built like a wrestler and had a tired, slightly world-weary face that was nonetheless handsome for its imperfections. His blue-eyed gaze was clear and forthright and his hair was cut in a military style that suited him. I felt under-dressed next to him - even though my own suit was not a cheap one. The fact that I was the owner of both a considerable beard and a Cossack's chub didn't help - my shaven head and long braid sat uneasily next to his precisely combed style.

Quantrell gave me a surprised smile when I was shown in as though he hadn't expected to be greeted by someone that towered over himself. At 6' 4", I usually was the tallest man in the room and though I could tell that Quantrell was tall, I was still taller. Although I wasn't wrestler-built like he was, I had a natural bulk and strength that often intimidated people.

"Well, well. You're a big one," Quantrell said as he eyed my shaven head and braid. "Unusual hairstyle. I like it."

I nodded to him. Most people commented on the hairstyle as they weren't familiar with it.

"It's a Cossack's chub, sir," I said.

That made Quantrell laugh.

"None of the 'sir' shit, mate," he said and his cultured accent gave way to a certain East End charm. "It's Zak to you. I like to keep things informal."

"Ah. My apologies. In that case, you may call me Sasha," I said and smiled. "Instead of Oleksandr."

It was very rare that I invited anyone to call me by my diminutive on the first meeting yet Quantrell - Zak - had done so first. It seemed rather rude for me not to return the favour. It still seemed odd to me to be using my father's name instead of another assumed name as I usually did.

"Sasha, Sasha, Sasha. Oleksandr Kovalnik, eh? Unusual name. As unusual as your hairstyle," Zak said as he glanced down at the paperwork in front of him.

"I'm Ukrainian," I said proudly. "Of Zaporizhzhian Cossack descent. Hence the hairstyle."

"Is that so?" Zak asked as he looked up at me. "It suits you."

He pointed at my hair and smiled again - a genuine one that time that showed dimples and a rather nice smile. I hadn't expected that from a man like him. Then again a nice smile didn't make a nice man.

"Please. Sasha. Sit," Zak said as he gestured towards the only other chair in the room. "You're making even me feel small here."

He grinned again and I returned the smile politely. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. It was almost a mirror image of my handler's pose a few days before and oddly, I found the similarity uncannily unsettling - unconscious though it had been. I scratched at my beard and smiled to hide my discomfort.

"So. Sasha. Have you experience working in restaurants before?" he asked.

I then detailed my family's connections with the restaurant trade, of how we'd had thriving contracts with the best fish suppliers all over the country - Grimsby included. Zak looked interested at that, at my inherent knowledge of such a trade and he nodded in approval.

"Knowledgeable as well as handsome," he said and raised an eyebrow at my expression of surprise. "Take that as a compliment, Sasha, not a line. Not yet."

I just nodded at him and smiled again - that time in sudden amusement.

"Do you have family, Sasha?" Zak asked as he looked down at his paperwork again. "Other than parents. Siblings."

"By marriage, you mean?" I asked in increased amusement.

"Yes, I mean by marriage. Working here may mean you need to spend extended time away from home - if I need you to travel on business. To the docks in Grimsby for argument's sake," Zak said as he gave me a cool and calculating look. "Which means you may leave a wife unattended for those periods of time."

He gave me an amused lift of one eyebrow again.

"No. No wife. I recently broke up with a boyfriend, however," I said truthfully.

That would have been part of the cover anyway - and usually was part of any cover I gave under any mission - yet that time, my stock explanation happened to be true. My last relationship had not lasted. A jealous boyfriend and extended trips away from home on MI5 jaunts did not mix well.

"A boyfriend," Zak repeated and once again, he looked interested instead of put off. "So that's how the wind blows with our Mr Kovalnik."

I had to ask - "How do you feel about that?"

"I'm very accepting. Considering the wind blows the same way with me too," he said and quirked an eyebrow at me. "See? Not just a pretty face."

"No. So I'm starting to gather," I said dryly which made Zak laugh.

"I think I'm going to like you," Zak predicted even as he stared down at the paperwork again.

What followed then was a retinue of the usual boring interview questions that I answered by rote. I really didn't need much attention to answer them.

At the end of all the questioning, Zak rose and reached across the table to shake my hand. I took it and was unsurprised to find that his grip was firm and his palm warm. He made eye contact as we shook and the smile he gave me was nothing short of predatory.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again soon, Sasha," he predicted.

I just nodded and gave him a smile. He then came around his desk and offered to see me out. Again, I nodded even though I already knew my way out - the route was not that hard to follow even if a person didn't have a photographic memory like mine.

As we walked, I surreptitiously checked out several places where I could place discreet cameras or microphones - to record all that was going on of course. Thankfully, Zak didn't seem to notice my slight distraction; instead, he continued talking about various ventures and menu additions they were planning for the restaurant chain, as though he was playing the mild-mannered billionaire businessman to the hilt. I wasn't fooled, yet I was oddly charmed by his enthusiasm - that at least was real. He was genuinely interested in the running of his company, even if he did some dodgy deals on the side.

Once we'd reached the street outside, Zak scanned the street and immediately, his face closed off and became narrow with sudden tension. I frowned at him. Even though I guessed that he was searching for those he perceived as enemies, his sudden shutting down concerned me. Inside the building, admittedly amongst his minions, he was relaxed and easy with his camaraderie and smiles. Outside, he was a completely different man.

Zak noticed me watching him and suddenly his bright grin returned, which warmed his face and suddenly I saw the man - or indeed the young boy - he'd once been, before the organised crime took over. He seemed more relaxed, more likeable, someone generous and unafraid and unmarked by life in general.

"Well. I hope you have a pleasant evening, Sasha," he said as he clapped me on the back.

"You too," I said softly.

He nodded and watched me stroll away yet when I cast a look over my shoulder halfway down the street, Zak had already ducked inside his restaurant as though he had never been there at all. I had to huff out a laugh - despite what he was, I was oddly charmed by him. He did have a silvertongue in his mouth, undoubtedly.