The Steel Handshake: Part Three

by DarkMark

The first three days of Piotr Rasputin's employment at Stark International went without incident. At the break room, more than a few of the old hands were hesitant and suspicious. After all, they had been at Stark during the height of Cold War production, and few of them trusted the Russians even then. (Which, of course, made them fit right in with Tony Stark's philosophy.)

But Piotr turned out to be somebody it was hard to hate.

He sat around the table at lunch or coffee break with the other guards or the line guys and, with little prompting, told them of what it was like farming at the Ust-Ordinski Collective. It turned out that farming was pretty much farming on both sides of the ideological line, and a few of the employees had come up from such areas themselves.

One by one, the guys and Piotr started bonding.

Not long into their term, someone asked about Peter's family. "I have a mother and father back home," he said. "And a sister, Ilyana. I...once had a brother."

"Hey, sorry," said Al Bare, who had lost a family member himself. "How did it happen?"

Peter Rasputin toyed with his coffee cup for a moment. "It happened in space. He was a cosmonaut. His name was Mikhail Rasputin."

Kelly Sears, one of the older guys on the crew, wheeled to look at him. "Wait a minute. You're related to Mikhail Rasputin?"

Peter looked up at him. "Da. I have said, he was my brother."

"Hey, Kel, you knew his brother?" asked Del, one of Peter's mates on security.

"Know of him," said Kelly. "Back in the Sixties, when I got in, we were even bigger into makin' stuff for NASA then we are today. We kept track on everybody that went up, Russian and American too. I heard about the, ah, accident. Didn't know you was related. I'm sorry, man."

"Thank you," said Piotr. "He was, to me...forgive me. I cannot say it."

"You don't have to, Pete," said Kelly, putting an arm about his broad shoulders. "We understand."

"Thank you," said Piotr, again.

There was little else said, and the break time ran out after a minute or two.

-C-

Dear Katya,

The first day of my temporary job has gone well, at least as far as I can tell. I was mainly shown around the parts of the factory which they will permit me to see. Then I was put to work checking identification cards for employees entering and leaving, patrolling the inner perimeter of Mr. Stark's factory, and sometimes asking questions of people coming to and going from sites which they have asked me to keep watch upon. One of these is a [censored by state security]. So far my fellow workers tend to be accepting of me, which is a good thing. Perhaps R. Nixon's visit to the Motherland has made such things more acceptible.

Mr. Stark and I had a talk this morning about certain things, mostly about my duties. I like him somewhat, though he is a member of the ruling class. I know I like him better than his bodyguard. It is strange that, if Iron Man is employed to guard Mr. Stark, I never see him around. But perhaps it is thought to be more effective if he remains undercover until needed. I have no idea how such things are done in this country.

I was told what my wages were to be for this week's work and it is unbelievable. [Censored by state security] I will try to send some home to you and the family.

Tonight I will have dinner with Mr. H. Hogan and his wife. He was a boxer before he became one of Mr. Stark's security men. The professor's mansion is very nice. But I think I am learning more of this country from my brief time in Mr. Stark's factory than I have learned in my weeks at the mansion.

I still do not think it is fair for Mr. Stark to make such money while his workers make so much less. But at least they make [Censored by state security]. Perhaps I should look upon him as a commissar. If the commissars I know were more like Mr. Stark, perhaps production on the collective would increase greatly. But this is something of which I cannot be sure.

Enclosed is a photograph of me with my work uniform on. I will write more when I get time. Do not worry. I remain a citizen of the Motherland, even in this country.

But if I had to become an American, I think I would like to work for Mr. Stark.

Your brother,

Piotr

-C-

Happy and Pepper decided against an upscale kind of eatery to which to take Peter. After all, despite Hap's decent income at Stark, he'd learned to watch his wallet. There was no telling when something crazy might happen and put the whole place on hold for a month or so. Also, they figured that too much ostentation would seem snobbish to the kid. After all, it'd seemed that way to Happy, at first, when Tony had taken him to the Stork Club.

But the steak place was good enough by them and by Peter, as it turned out, and he had a hard time pulling himself away from the salad bar. "Is this permissable?" he asked, displaying a plate loaded with an open taco shell, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, croutons, bell peppers, ham and turkey slices, and a liberal coating of Thousand Island dressing.

"Sure, it's all right," said Pepper. "Provided you've got room for the steak and spud after it, of course."

"Then there will be more for our fellow workers?" Peter's expression was so sincere it made Happy's mouth turn down even more in merriment.

"Don't worry, Pete," said Happy. "There ain't no salad shortage in Long Island. Dig in."

"Thank you, Mr. Hogan," said Piotr. "Is it against the law or custom to bless one's meal?"

"Uh, say grace, you mean? I suppose not, if you wanna."

"Thank you," said Piotr, and, bowing his head, uttered a brief prayer in Russian. He looked up. "In my home, we only do this in private."

Pepper smiled and folded her hands. "Well, here you can pray whenever you like. But most people do it in private, too."

"Then I will do so, in the future."

"Nope," said Happy. "Do it whenever you like. There's no laws against it here, Pete. Nobody's gonna report you in for doing it."

"But is there not a law against prayer in your schools?"

As soon as he had said it, Peter was troubled to see the look of sadness in Pepper's eyes. "There is," she said. "As little as we like it."

"My apologies," said Peter. "I did not wish to offend, Mrs. Hogan."

"It's not your fault, Peter," said Pepper. "It's just that the Supreme Court ruled that prayer in schools might discriminate against those who didn't share the same beliefs. So they ruled against praying in school."

"I understand," Peter replied. "Many do not share my family's beliefs in my country. Or they say they do not, so long as someone is watching."

"Well, nobody's watching over here, Pete, so do what you like," said Happy. "Including eat."

"Thank you, Mr. Hogan," said Peter, forking a large helping of salad towards his mouth. "I will." He munched.

After a few moments, Peter looked intently at Happy and put his fork down. "Mr. Hogan, may I ask a personal question?"

"You can ask if you call him 'Happy'," said Pepper. "I call him 'Hey, you' at the house. Nobody calls him Mr. Hogan very much."

"At ease, Pep," said Happy. "Go ahead, Pete. Anything but my win-loss record in the ring, okay?"

"Da," said Peter. "You will forgive me, please, but I notice you do not smile very much."

"Are you kiddin'?" said Happy, whose expression was that of a hearse driver. "I'm smilin' right now."

Peter looked at him quizzically, then continued. "I just wondered if, perhaps, the incident with...my countryman...had caused such a condition."

"Your countryman?" asked Happy. "Which one?"

Pepper explained, "A lot of Russian super-guys hit the factory way-back-when, Peter. You'll have to be more specific."

Quietly, Peter said, "Comrade Titanium Man."

Happy was silent.

"Forgive me, please forgive me, Comrade Happy," said Peter, holding out both his hands. "I see I have offended, and I beg pardon. If you wish, I will forfeit my week's pay. Will that make amends?"

"Nothin' makes amends for what that guy did," said Happy, in a gravel voice. "An' none of it was your fault, kid. I almost got killed by two Russkies. One was the Unicorn. Another was the Titanium Man. The Titanium Man got closest."

"Comrade Happy-"

"Your boy was killin' Iron Man with those hidden weapons, like those missle launchers they'd planted in the fightin' area beforehand," said Happy. "I had to bring Shellhead an equalizer. I got it to him, an' I took a blast from that big crud in the green armor doin' it. The kinda blast that was shakin' up Iron Man. Only I didn't have any armor. Get me?"

Peter was silent.

"I ended up with more internal injuries than I had internals," said Happy. "For two weeks, I was halfway to dead. I wasn't awake during any of it. They had to put me under some kinda experimental ray to save my life. It turned me into a big, outta control freak. That happened to me twice. Each time, I ended up fightin' Iron Man, the greatest guy on the planet. Both times, I almost hurt Pepper here. And I keep wonderin' if, someday, there ain't gonna be a third time. That's what I owe to your pal, the Titanium Man."

"I am sorry," repeated Peter.

"A year before that, I got into a brawl with the Unicorn when he came callin'," said Happy. "He hit me with that horn-ray o' his, and it put me in the hospital. So I think you can understand...you may be the first Russian I've ever seen that I didn't want to spit on."

"They should not have done those things," said Peter. "Not to an unarmed man."

"You didn't do it, Peter," said Pepper, touching his arm in sympathy. "But now you know a little bit more about your 'heroes' than you did before."

"Da," said Peter, nodding. "Although, you must admit, great destruction has been done at times in our homeland by heroes of your country."

"Could be," said Pepper. "But I don't think they did it first."

"Perhaps," said Peter. "But if our nations have chosen to coexist, then our heroes must do the same, I believe. And our peoples should follow suit."

"Inasmuch as we can trust each other," said Pepper. "I'm sorry, Peter, but that's the way it is."

A pause. "Comrade Pepper," said Peter, "do you trust me?"

"Inasmuch as I've seen of you, Peter, I do," she said. "There's a lot I don't know about you. But I think, from what I know, that you're a pretty nice young man."

"Same for me," said Happy. "Just remember, Peter: we trust you. Okay? And we want to be able to keep doing that."

"You may rely upon me, friend Happy," said Peter. "I am under no orders to spy upon Mr. Stark or his plant."

"What orders are you under, Peter?" asked Pepper.

"To work."

"Okay." She laughed. "That'll put you one up on Happy, then."

"Hey, now, Pep!"

"And I can see why Mr. Stark does not like the Titanium Man very much. If he hurt Mr. Stark's bodyguard, and Mr. Happy here, it is quite understandable."

"Is that all he told you about the Titanium Man?" asked Pepper, looking at Peter intently.

"Pepper, maybe that's all he needs to know," said Happy.

Peter ate a mouthful of salad, because he was hungry. Then he said, "Is there more I should know, friend Pepper?"

Pepper said, "I almost got killed by the sonofabitch himself when he came back for a second try at Iron Man. He paralyzed me with an electrical ray, tried to use me to get an advantage over Iron Man when they were fighting. Iron Man managed to get me out of harm's way and got back into the fight. He was lucky enough to beat Titanium Man again. And in that fight, Peter, nobody had invited Iron Man to a neutral battlefield and gave him a challenge that he could refuse. The Titanium Man just showed up, started a fight, and tried to kill him."

Peter's hand was frozen, halfway to his mouth. "Bojemoi," he whispered. "Forgive me."

"There's more," said Pepper. "I guess Tony didn't want to tell you, but I will. There was a woman Mr. Stark was in love with. Her name was Janice Cord. Iron Man had saved her life more than once. She was an innocent bystander in a three-way fight among Iron Man, the Crimson Dynamo, and the Titanium Man. This was the second Dynamo, and Ti Man had been sent to bring him back to Russia. Miss Cord just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, the only person there who didn't have any armor. Iron Man and the Dynamo were in the same spot. The Titanium Man blasted them all. Didn't hesitate a second, from what I heard."

She paused.

"Janice Cord died, Peter," she said. "She wasn't as lucky as Happy."

Peter couldn't say anything.

"Now you know why the boss and Iron Man feel the way they do about Russians?" said Pepper.

"They never told us these things," said Peter. "About the Titanium Man. They never told us."

"Did they ever tell ya that Shellhead was up there with the Avengers, fightin' to save the world in the Kree / Skrull War?" asked Happy. "Or about all the other times he helped keep the whole planet from bein' conquered? And that includes Russia, too."

"This Kree / Skrull War I know nothing of," said Peter. "What territory was it fought in?"

"Space," said Happy. "Up there." He pointed to the ceiling.

Peter nodded. "Da," he said. "Where my brother died."

"I'm sorry, kid," said Happy. "Believe it."

"Thank you, Comrade Happy." Impulsively, the big Russian leaned over and hugged Happy with his right arm. "And you may be assured, if anyone attacks the plant while Piotr Rasputin is on duty...they will have to get through me to hurt either of you. And they will not do so!"

Pepper chuckled. "Spoken like a security guy at heart. There's only one way you'll make us mad, Peter."

"Tell me, friend Pepper, that I may avoid such a thing."

"That's if you don't eat your salad, and what I see coming towards us."

A waiter was approaching with three plates on a serving dish.

"In this area, I will definitely be politically correct," grinned Peter, and had at his salad with a vengeance.

-C-

The next day on the job, Peter Rasputin made certain to seek out Tony Stark when he could. Unfortunately, this proved about as easy as trying to make one's way to the front of a long line in a GUM store (or, for that matter, Sak's Fifth Avenue), since, as Peter discovered, Mr. Stark's day was taken up by many appointments. But Miss Greer promised to see if Tony could spare Peter five minutes. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow. Peter said that would be all right, and went back to his post after break.

One of his duties was to help screen the folks who came in for the plant tour every Tuesday, which was fairly easy. About a hundred people came for the tour. They passed through a metal detector, and Peter watched the X-ray screen as their packages or valises were passed along a conveyor belt, as if they were at an airport. He was also required to check I.D.'s and see if anything seemed amiss, though, if one were forged, he had to admit it would probably take more than his expertise to tell how.

There was also, at a part of the screening room which the guests could not see, a large poster on which had been printed photos of certain persons who were not to be allowed in the plant. Some were common criminals. Others were super-beings, with pictures of them in costume alongside their civilian photographs. A few of those, Peter noted with regret, were Russian super-heroes. A few were simply stalkers or industrial spies.

There was a scanner installed in the ceiling which registered the faces of those entering and compared them with photos in a database. But the guards were supposed to use their eyes as well as the scanner, and Peter's own eyes flicked between the line of people coming through the entry point and the page of pictures on the wall, while checking ID's and passing them to the hand-stamp people down the way. A certain tall man, followed by two who were somewhat shorter, made up a portion of the line. The tall man had a raincoat draped over his shoulders and carried an attache case, not unlike the one Peter had seen beside Mr. Stark's desk yesterday. He had on glasses and a hat and wore a beard and mustache, which were red. His face, to Peter, seemed familiar and Slavic.

"Excuse me, sir," said Peter, as the man tried to move on. "I must see your identification."

"Of course." The man spoke proper English. And yet...there was a bare trace of an accent that, like it or not, seemed as fleetingly familiar as the man's face. The driver's liscence was in the name of one Mark Shepanko. Peter looked at his face again. "You are Russian, sir?"

"My family is," said Shepanko. "And I can tell by your accent you are, as well." He waited.

"So you are a native of the United States, then?" Peter felt, uncomfortably, like a KGB man asking questions of a citizen. But such was his role, he told himself.

"I am, sir," he said. "My father emigrated here before I was born. Do you wish to see more identification?"

"Please." Peter held out his hand. The man turned over his wallet. Looking at the two men behind him, Peter wondered if they were acting nervous or just irritated by the holdup.

The wallet contained a miniature diploma from Johnstown High School, a Social Security number, an insurance card from the Hartford, and a library card, among other things. They seemed appropriate and appropriately aged. Peter looked at Shepanko again. "Have you ever been to this factory before?"

"No," said the man, looking straight into Peter's eyes. "And, you must forgive me, but if you don't let me through it doesn't look as though I'll be able to be in it today."

Peter looked at Al Bare, standing nearby. Al looked at Shepanko and then said, "ID check?"

"It seems to be in order," allowed Peter.

"Go ahead, then," said Bare.

Peter handed the wallet back to Shepanko. The valise had passed through the scanner without revealing anything untoward. "Have a nice day," said Peter, as Al had instructed him to say.

"Thank you," said Shepanko.

The two men behind him seemed to relax a little too quickly after Shepanko was passed through. But they, too, had nothing suspicious on them. Nothing he could pinpoint, at any rate.

Still, about five minutes after they had passed through, Peter got up, motioned to Al, and conferred with him in the room just off the line.

"Mr. Bare, I wish to leave my post for a short time," said Peter.

"For what reason?" asked Bare. "We've still got about 24 looky-lous here to process, and more to come, probably."

"Forgive me, sir," Peter said. "But the man, Shepanko. The one whose wallet I examined. I do not trust him."

"On what basis?"

"On the basis of suspicion."

Al looked at him curiously. "Okay. What makes you suspicious?"

Peter came closer to him. "You know where I come from, Mr. Bare. But you have never been there. There are men who dwell among us, who seem to be of our kind, but who are observers for the State. This, of course, is something to be expected in my homeland. Here, though, it might be out of place."

Bare was silent for a moment. "You think this guy might be one of them?"

"I am not certain," said Peter. "But we who have been there...we have a sense for such things, I think. Sometimes."

"You want to follow him, then."

"If that is permissible."

Bare sighed. "Okay. Here are the guidelines. Don't hassle them, and I mean at all. If they're just tourists, Stark I can get its ass in a big crack if word gets out we treated 'em like spies. If they do something that looks bad..." He indicated the walkie-talkie in Peter's shoulder holster. "And do it right then."

"Understood, Mr. Bare."

"One more thing, Peter," said Bare. "The high security areas are as much off-limits to you as they are to the looky-lous. Violate that directive, and you're out of here on the spot. Capeesh?"

"Also understood, sir."

"Good. Get going. Talk to me ASAP."

Peter looked at him with astonishment. "Mr. Bare, I would never call you a sap!"

Bare cracked up. "Skip it. Just go!"

After Peter left, Bare activated his own walkie-talkie. "Roberts? Bare here. Want you to watch somebody for me."

"Sure, chief," said Roberts. "Like who?"

"The new guy. Peter Rasputin. Headed for Building 14."

"Rasputin? You think he's a risk?"

"I hope not," said Bare. "But I want to make sure not."

-C-

Tony Stark usually took only half of his hour lunch break for lunch. That gave him about thirty minutes a day to kick out the jams and establish a presence, soaring over the Stark factory as Iron Man.

The tour guides were glad to point out the rocketing figure of red and gold in the sky, who waved to them and was waved at in return. While he flew, he was carrying on a radio conversation with Nick Fury of SHIELD.

"So you think the Russian's checking out so far?" said Fury, in Iron Man's helmet receiver.

"Hard to tell at this point, Nick," Iron Man allowed. "Kept his nose clean so far. But we've been hit by saboteurs at S. I. so often in the past that if St. Peter had a Volga boatman accent, we'd still be edgy."

"Well, Xavier seems to trust him," said Fury. "And there's the Black Widow, for example."

"Yeah," said Iron Man, noncomittally.

"But there's been guys we trusted before, for years, and you know what happened. Like Kim Philby."

"Yeah," said Iron Man. "Definitely." He paused. "Hold up, Nick."

"What's up?"

"Going to have to break off," he said. "Sensors going off. Think somebody might be trying to get in 16." Building 16 was where things were stored which only Stark or Iron Man had access to. Usually, they were captured weaponry which were often dismantled and transferred to SHIELD or other appropriate agencies.

"Well, let me know if ya need help," said Fury.

"Acknowledged, Nick. Out."

Iron Man jackknifed in the air and, with an adjustment of his controls, set a couple of lenses over his eyes in his iron mask. They brought the ground below into telescopic clarity.

It appeared that Building 16's security had indeed been breached.

And an altering of his observation showed one person running towards it.

Peter Rasputin.

-C-

Peter stopped in his tracks before the door of Building 16. He panted, having run there from hiding. The three men, one of them Shepanko, had managed to jimmy the lock and force their way inside. There would be guards to deal with inside, but they had closed the door behind them. He had already delivered a verbal description of the situation to Al Bare, on the walkie-talkie. Bare had responded, "Peter. You are not to enter the building. This is strictly unauthorized. Understand?"

"Understood, Mr. Bare," said Peter, between breaths. "But someone must come. Have you heard from the guards inside?"

"No," said Bare. "And that makes me worried. We've got people coming, Peter. Hang on."

"I am hanging, Mr. Bare," Peter said. "Depend on it."

Now what?, he asked himself. Should he chance opening the door, and seeing if the intruders had harmed people within? The threesome, whoever they were, could be committing murder, sabotage, arson, anything imaginable. And he was shackled to the perimeter, by regulations.

Another part of him debated from another direction. If the KGB actually were conducting an operation in Stark's plant, perhaps it was to stop a weapon which could be used against the Motherland. If that were the case, how could he call his actions morally correct if he stopped them?

But, in the end, he admitted to himself that he was a worker. Even for this short week, that was his assigned role. And a good worker must obey orders, he was taught. Otherwise, society would fall into great chaos. Even in this country, where so much seemed beyond control...he had been trusted, and he would prove himself worthy of that trust.

Peter stayed outside of Building 16, the walkie-talkie near his lips. He heard a low creaking from the building's metal wall. "Mr. Bare," he said, in a whisper. "I hear a noise..."

The building wall exploded, and knocked Peter off his feet. He armored up in an instant, warding off the shards of metal, wire, concrete, and insulation that bombarded him. After the debris stopped flying, Peter reverted to his human form, fearful that someone might see him as Colossus. He brushed away some dust and splinters from his chest and got to his feet.

Above him, still at a considerable height, Iron Man was swooping down.

But before him, visible in the hole that had been torn in the wall, were three costumed figures. Two of them were holding an apparatus that looked somewhat like a large circular gong on a rack. The third was the one who had been Mark Shapanko, only he was no longer wearing a mustache and beard. Now he was dressed in a uniform of green and orange, and part of it was metal. Most especially his helmet, from the forehead portion of which protruded something not unlike a wide horn.

"Greetings, comrade," smiled the Unicorn. "Care to join us? Or to die?"

[next part]

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