Once a whore always a whore. Once a spy always a spy.
Alex was well versed in both the oldest and second oldest professions. He had split his life into two incarnations, as Alex Rider where he lost himself in spying, then sex which was just a game for Misha and reinvented himself as Sasha Makarov, dancer, lover, whore and now assassin. Sasha was a player of the game of life and all its facets, the only difference between then and now, was that he was in control of what he did and who he worked for. After loosing Manfred he had been drawn back piece by piece into work as a freelance operative, even if he was primarily a dancer. He was in Moscow for a fundraising event for the Bolshoi. Perfect cover for his other assignment. There were hundreds of guests tonight and he had picked his two marks, one victim and one stooge.
Alex was not surprised by his occasional, but very lucrative return to 'cleaning'. His best friend in the whole world was Paul McAlaster, who on paper was a minor hood running clubs and whores; but if you scratched the surface and he was one of the best go-to men in the business. Whatever you wanted or needed he could point you in the right direction, for a modest fee, of course. The man had coaxed the Scorpia trained freelance back to his bad old ways. Dancing always came first, but that also provided excellent cover as guest principal artist for a major ballet company, which meant that during his bi-annual tours or other guest appearances, if Alex was in town he could squeeze in some other work. It had been as a courier at first, delivering goods and messages. One bad situation, where he had been a driver for a friend of Paul's, had resulted in him killing the five thugs sent to send a message. He had felt no remorse as he shot all of them effortlessly. Paul had then offered him professional contracts. Tonight was his second hit, weeks of carefully planning. The act of killing, it was as if he was a marionette, a puppet on string, moving to someone else commands, only to wake with a corpse and need to clean up, get out and get back to where ever Sasha Makarov was meant to be. The thrill was escaping, he remembered that well from years ago.
Truth was a hot commodity and at fourteen Alex had learned you only surrendered the bare minimum of information to fit the facts as you saw fit. He had never told anyone at the Bank about Yassen's deathbed declaration of love. Eighteen months later, when left high and dry in Miami, Alex had let the Feds, cops and social workers think he was just a broken teen trained as a pet, who got passed around for favours. Mikhail's plan for the removal of the younger Cortez brother had been beautifully executed, paving the way for the Russian's retirement and Alex's return to normal life in California with the Pleasures. Only Edward and Liz had passed on taking back their wayward foster son. The consensus of concerned adults at the time had been to send the out-of-control, ex-teen agent to boarding school. Like that was ever on the cards after Point Blanc Academy. Alex had run so fast, his trainers had practically caught fire.
In reality, he had worked as a partner for Mikhail and had tortured, killed and maimed as during their five glorious months together. He had also acted as a raven on occasion. He had loved Misha and the life without limits. The teenager had partied hard enough to get addicted to the ever-present copious amounts of drugs. Alex had no sympathy for any of their targets, who had been corrupt cops, drug dealers and greedy, unscrupulous politicians. After Jacks death, the fifteen year old had achieved perfect disassociation as he felt no guilt whatsoever over the demise of Julius and Rahzim.
As part of his life in New York, Alex had taken acting lessons. Art is life and he became a convert to the Stanislavski method. Maria had been wily enough to see through his masks, but there he had found friends, a sort of family and as much emotional support as he could manage. His one chance of normal had been Manfred, a man who had understood him and provided support and understanding for Alex's fractured psyche. The ex-spy had made the mistake of falling in love. All consuming, unconditional love, which had led to full devastating heart break and grief. In pain and anger, Alex to sworn he would never make that mistake again. Only he had and Talia had driven a knife into his heart. Now he was changing direction, to become cold, emotionless and untouchable.
…..
The Director of the Bolshoi observed the American enigma, as the twenty-five year old networked effortlessly and was currently in a heated discussion, in French, with Captain Dima Ivanov. School friends from an exclusive academy in Grenoble, but neither talked about their time there with strangers and both clammed up if anyone inquired. Grennady Titiv had asked about the school from hell, as Sasha called it, and Dima's demeanour had coldly morphed into professional mode as a career state security officer when he stated that to know he needed Alpha level clearance. What had happened at that school? Whatever it was it had made the two men close as brothers. Aleksandr Makarov only appeared to truly relax with Dima, the elusive ex-president Boris Kiriyenko or his ex-girlfriend Alia Uslana. He observed as Alexsandr got a predatory look on his face when he spotted the TV producer of Arts Weekly, a man whom the ballet star was having an on-off affair with. Maxim Lukov fit the bill as older dominant, one that was married, and was attending tonight's event without his wife.
Within a metre of his mark, Alex kneeled down to tie his shoelace. With a cough, the poison dart was delivered via a short plastic straw concealed by his right hand as he politely covered his mouth. The straw was palmed into the pocket of his trousers as he stood. The mark barely twinged as Alex stood and made a b-line for his patsy. Tonight, would be spent with this oaf slobbering over his dick, delivering disgusting sloppy kisses and never quite hitting the right spot when he fucked. C'est la vie.
Part of a stash of goodies left in a safe house, formerly used by Yassen Gregorovich; the capsule of poison was timed to degrade in approximately forty minutes, delivering a neurotoxin causing heart failure. Biodegradable and almost completely undetectable apart from a small thorn-like puncture wound. The data stick of Yassen's money, resources and diary had been passed onto Alex by Misha. A stash visited on his last visit to France in December.
Alex moved like a cat between the throng of party goers and thought of happier more pleasurable activities to attain a full erection, to give Maxim the impression he was hot and horny enough for a quick exit, a fumble in the awaiting limo and a night of fucking. Helped alone by Maxim consuming a fistful of Viagra to keep up with his much younger lover. Exit stage left, before Alphonso Martinelli dropped dead and earned Alex a cool three quarters of a million Euros; for taking out a man at the Kremlin, while protected by Presidential maximum security and making it look like natural causes.
…
A bleary eyed Sasha Makarov made it to practice to see two FSB officers waiting for him at his locker, to take him in for questioning. The sudden death at the Kremlin was being investigated, all attendees were giving statements.
In the building on Lubiyanka Square, Alex acted pensive and evasive, when asked about his movements the night before, only confirming an assignation with an unnamed guest. He knew that Maxim would have lied through his teeth, feigning ill heath as an excuse for his early departure. Only Alex would tell the truth, a piece at a time, as the previous evening he had listened to Dima's disapproving monologue over his choice of a married male lover, that the esteemed director of the Bolshoi knew about the fling and the fact the driver of limousine was ex-army and who had witnessed Alex give the sad old fuck a blow job in the back of the car. After the designated bad cop got heavy, Alex would crack and blab about how he loved Maxim and had wanted a proper goodbye before leaving for England in two days; playing the part of fucked in the head submissive. He had read his file at the FSB, his copy provided by Joe Canterbury, hacker extraordinaire. The document was almost a verbatim copy of the CIA counterpart, which painted the picture of a psychologically compromised heterosexual young man engaging in homosexual affairs with older dominant, often violent, partners, fuelled by deep self-hatred. Thank God for the CIA profile based on the assessment by Tamara Knight stating fourteen year old Alex was 100% into girls; helped along by his 'poor little victim' act in Miami in January 2003. On some level the pain and humiliation was welcome, as he did feel a mountain of survivor's guilt over Jack.
"I can't tell you. He's married, respectable. It's only a rebound fling, anyway. I'm going back to London. You know I'm performing at Covent Garden next weekend." Alex looked miserably at his feet. "Please don't tell Boris. He thinks being queer was a phase I've grown out of. I tried to be straight, but Talia is engaged to that oil magnet, Zulyakov. That's why I left Novosibirsk. It was a complete mess, easier to walk away. She wants kids and I don't, won't can't… my birthday gift to myself at 18 was a vasectomy. Plenty of kids in the world who need a good home with no need to pass on any of my suspect genetic code." Alex had lived with Tatiana Bodganovskaya for nearly two years and had loved every moment with the wickedly funny, occasionally cruel, bi-sexual prima ballerina. He covered for her girlfriends, they had shared threesomes and had started to discuss marriage. His confession of being sterile had been the beginning of the end as she looked for and had found a suitable husband and father for her planned two children. He gave that marriage three years tops before she moved on, happy with a generous settlement for future financial security.
The fist of the older heavier built interrogator, slammed on the table. "No more games, Sasha. Who were you with last night?"
"You already know who I was with. Dimitry Ivanov will have told you. Technically, it's not a crime to sleep with a man, we're both adults. But, if I tell you, it could ruin him. He does not deserve that. So, what that he's in the closet." Alex said angrily.
Then came the stick and the pathetic carrot. "Tell us or you'll be charged with obstructing an official investigation and neither your American passport, nor your having friends in high places will save you." The man softened "We know you are only acting out. Your boyfriend has form. He's not been so nice to his former toys. You've been lucky you're leaving before he broke your heart."
Alex put his head on the table, closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "I've been having an affair with Maxim Lukov for just over six months. Our affair started after I was on his show to promote the Bolshoi's refurbishment. We fuck when I'm in Moscow. Every third weekend, I visit Boris and then take it up the arse for the Producer of Arts Weekly on Channel One. We normally go to the Hyatt by the Airport, but last night we fucked in his martial bed and on his sofa and in his shower 'cause his wife is in Paris." Alex then sat back up, staring straight ahead, face emotionless, and then pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and pulled off the bandana from around his neck to show off the darkening bruises along his lower arms and around his throat. "He likes it rough. Get forensics in, these handprints should be a perfect match for Maxim. You can get DNA from my clothes, if you want."
It had taken a few weeks to get the TV producer to play really rough. As Alex planned out his hit to the last detail.
The cop looked old and worn, when confronted with a kid who played out his emotional turmoil for all to see. "Any other injuries we should be aware of Sasha."
Alex then stood up and took off his shirt to show off the deep bruising from punches to his stomach and ribs and welts across his back. "He used lube and condoms. I've not got internal injuries." If Alex had not been so intent on playing a sad little fuck, he could have laughed out loud when both security officers swore and then the older tough guy asked to the mirrored observation window for a doctor to attend.