Aside from the decision to "hang every member of the Latverian royal family," there was little to fault in the Latverian king's policies. The benefit of having a wise dictator is that nothing gets delayed by shortsighted fools for even a moment. Solomon had long since seen the political value stamped on Latveria and, without hesitation, ordered a public execution—legitimate sons and bastards alike, no exceptions. Except for those too young—whom Solomon kept at his side to "train" (in truth, sent into the Praetorians' augmentation chambers) or handed over to the Sisterhood—the clean, decisive slaughter completely avoided a chain of troubles that would have come after, like the absurdity of "a royal bastard found living in exile in some valley." Latveria did not have glassy-eyed reporters hired by various competitors, nor a mountain of stupid questions, and so no one cared what happened after the royal family was executed. "What's going on with you," Natasha Romanoff traced a circle with her finger, "your ability?"
Solomon knew what she meant.
"This is my essence, my soul. I accepted that long ago, but I rarely show it. From the look of things, this condition will ease soon, though I don't much like that." He cracked a joke, then poured Natasha a bracing espresso vodka made with a capsule from the in-room machine—perfect for after a meal. "If you drink a little more you'll feel it better. Sometimes I find this ability pretty annoying."
Natasha took the nearly ice-cold drink but didn't press. If Solomon wanted to talk, he would have already told her.
"In the jacuzzi?"
"Of course. There are still hours before the meeting starts. You can rest properly."
Life in Vienna hadn't been affected by the conference. Helmut Zemo drove along Route 14 from Lower Austria into Vienna; after a short break, he continued on in the van he'd rented under a false identity, crossed the Brigittenauer Bridge over the man-made Danube Island, and headed straight for the narrow peninsula southwest of Donaustadt, finally parking in the Brigittenau area. Along the way he encountered no checks and no interference, as if it were an ordinary day. He knew unless he drove across Pappelwiese, the Donaupark, and the Danube Park straight to the Vienna International Centre and its surrounding complex, he was unlikely to meet any security personnel at all—this was a van carrying office supplies, its window sporting a UNIDO pass, and the UN Industrial Development Organization's building sat right next to the Vienna International Centre, one of the three structures in the UN complex.
As long as there was no unusually thorough inspection, Zemo could pull up right at the target. But he knew that was not going to happen: powerful intelligence-gathering and investigative work had left him fully aware of every gap in the security plan for this conference, down to the price of every pen on the procurement list.
The UN's purchase price was more than double the market rate, which meant the company's owner had cut a deal with the building's procurement staff. In turn, security would, to some degree, be less wary of the delivery drivers—precisely why Zemo chose that disguise. The action outline his organization sent even suggested that after he parked the van in the designated spot, he could head to the nearby Uno Café for a cup of hot tea; there was a detailed menu in the appendix. Zemo had always thought whoever wrote that was joking—until his preliminary site visit, when he discovered he really could take that route for exfil and still have time for a hot drink. The getaway car he would use had already been driven to a spot by the Donaustadt Church the day before by some unknown means, parked by a valet, and loaded up with a hefty pre-paid parking fee—enough to last until he was done.
"How thoughtful," Helmut Zemo muttered, pocketing the mission phone displaying the remaining parking time, then flashed credentials at the gate. He wasn't wearing the mask; he'd only used conventional makeup to evade cameras and security scrutiny. "Huber's sick. I'm covering his shift today." He smiled and said in fluent German to the guard, "No reason to complain. The old drunk's paycheck is mine now."
"Do you have… fine, just don't let anyone else see it." Seeing the Washington Post press ID Solomon produced, Natasha Romanoff swallowed her words. She glanced at some poor sap being shooed off for failing to produce a pass and understood the Post wouldn't be getting a story this time. Solomon, however, was quite pleased with his prank. "Where are you planning to stand? The back or the side?"
Solomon pointed. From that spot you could see all the dignitaries in the hall. "The Post's photographer is there. I'll link up with him in a bit," he said. "The Post always manages good positions, so I cozy up to that reporter—and lifted his pass. Honestly, it wasn't hard. Almost too easy."
"You're not a real reporter," Natasha said, first signing papers brought by some nervous staffer, while Solomon signed the other sheet with the name of the reporter he was impersonating. "And this is a hall full of national leaders. It's a very serious occasion."
"It's a bureaucratic ritual, Natasha. And the photographer doesn't know the reporter—he's never even met him. I checked." Solomon shrugged, completely unconcerned. Natasha had never figured out how his mind worked. He didn't seem worried in the least about getting caught impersonating a journalist, as if the entire conference were some amusing game. "Hey, my dear friend," Solomon suddenly called out to someone. "I hope the looks from certain people here won't make you uncomfortable."
"When we chose to hide in plain sight, we anticipated this. You can guess—when we encounter it, we only find it interesting." Prince T'Challa of Wakanda smiled. He shook hands with Solomon, then looked to Natasha. "Given your performance in Congress last time, I can tell you're well-suited to settings like this."
"It's all an act. I don't like being in the spotlight at all." Natasha shook hands with T'Challa. She'd heard long ago from Solomon that he and the Wakandan prince had been classmates at Oxford. Though he seemed shorter by comparison to Solomon, T'Challa still carried himself with poise. She didn't notice that, without her realizing it, Solomon's presence had dimmed to the point that a hurried glance might skip right over him; she didn't even register that his height and looks would normally draw every eye in the International Centre. That wasn't something a coffee-vodka and a hot whirlpool bath would make her forget. But now her mind was only on bracing for whatever topic the Wakandan would bring up—on their last mission led by Steve Rogers, several Wakandans had been killed by coincidence. Natasha assumed T'Challa would probe whether she would uphold the Accords, how many Avengers would sign, whether governments would test and surveil the team, and so on. She disliked T'Challa's habit of speaking with subtext, but she was ready to accept a reprimand. Instead, T'Challa deliberately sidestepped it.
"I'm simply glad you could come, Ms. Romanoff."
"Why? Don't you support passing this agreement?"
"As an agreement, yes, I support it. Politically, though, I'm not thrilled. Two people are more efficient than the hundred in this room." T'Challa gestured at the delegates. "This took three years to drag across the finish line. I can imagine what happened along the way. I learned how bureaucrats operate back at Oxford. It seems not a single thing has improved."
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