From the reminisces of Sergei Ivanov.
Chance encounters make up our lives. They happen at the coffee counter, with the person in front of us in line. Or on the metro, when we bump into strangers. They happen when we look up, see an angel, and then blink. They're gone. Chance encounters happen all the time. But we never pay any attention. We walk right past and think of ourselves. Then they're gone, out of our lives and into the flood of billions. What are the chances the paths will cross again? Too small to measure.
I am one of them.
Six Months Ago, London.
I sat in the office of Tulip Jones. MI6's newest head. It had been ten years since the event of "Scorpia Rising" as that Anthony Horowitz called it. I chided myself for letting him have free reign in the second half of that book. It was just horrible.
The last month I had been in Syria. Nothing big. Just setting loose what might be the predecessor of World War Three, but that would be for our descendents to discover.
"Alex, you have been one of our greatest agents." Something sharp pricked my neck. I realized what was happening. I reached behind me trying to grab the person who tranquilized me. No one was there.
"The past fourteen years have been wonderful," and I knew what was coming next. The world swam. This was a fast acting one. A really fast acting one.
"But you have been fired." I felt the tranquilizers take hold of my system and shut it down. I looked at Ms. Jones one last time. Her eyes were full of tears. I knew why she had hugged me the moment I stepped through the door. She was the only one who cared when I was a teen.
"I'm sorry." She looked like someone had killed her puppy. In which case, I was her puppy.
'I'm done with sorry." I choked out as the world faded to black. Words were imprinted on the backdrop of eyelids.
Burn Notice.
Six Months Ago, Morocco.
I sat on a crate under the hot sun. In any second, the official would pass on a street three blocks away. I would be able to see him from my high perch like an eagle sees his prey. He would roll down his window. He would look out. He would squint at the sun. He would be dead.
The sun made even me sweat. Unlike others, I did not chew gum or smoke. That left evidence. That was stupid. I kept the sniper trained on the street. Any second now…
Finally, the car pulled around the corner. I checked the flags that appeared naturally in the area. Laundry was my best friend on these jobs. I aimed and fired.
Another job well done for Yassen Gregorovich. I slipped into my car and started the smooth engine. Moroccan cuisine wasn't my favorite. I could be in Paris and spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying one of my favorite pastimes. Watching people be people. Retirement was nice. I only did a few jobs to keep my hand steady and gain a few favors.
My cell phone buzzed.
"Yassen." The only people who knew my number were those who needed it. An Irish voice came over the line. My blood chilled. MI6.
"Please! Don't hang up. Alex is going to get a burn notice. I don't know about you, I know there is a plethora of assassins ready to take him out." I felt a drip of loyalty trickle into my river of consciousness.
"Please, help him." I grunted. I hung up. Now, to book a ticket to London and procure two fake passports. I would have to cash in a few favors.
Six Months Ago, Seattle.
I sat on my lovely vintage chaise reading Wuthering Heights.
By "lovely vintage" I meant "old". "Chaise" meant "couch" and "reading" meant "re-reading for the umpteenth time". I remembered the words of a Miss Sabina Pleasure (really, how more suggestive a name could you get?).
"Get a boyfriend already."
Yes, that was why we got along so well. I kept her from dating in the double digits and she told me to go get some. That and the talk of a Mr. Alex Rider.
That week we spent in Bangkok had been fun. With Alex, you could expect at least one helicopter blowing up and at least two high speed car chases. No romance. But that was my policy, not his. I scanned the shelves.
I had every book by that Anthony Horowitz. The last one had been horrid. I wondered if Alex let the man have free reign or that he vanished halfway through the tale. I fingered one of my least favorite, but most loved books, Eagle Strike. Why did Yassen have to die? He was, by far, my favorite character (after Alex, but that was only because I met him).
"Miss Independent, Miss Self-Sufficient, Miss Keep-Your-Distance, Miss Unafraid, Miss Out-Of-My-Way…" I let the ring tone play. Carrie, the technology girl at the CIA, had a strange sense of humor.
That is the last time I let her service my phone, I thought. Eventually, I picked up.
"Syrai."
"Hello, Agent Archer." I smiled. I had my father to thank for that one.
"Yes, Ms. Turner?" I fished in my closet for a jacket. This wasn't a social call.
"I have a job for you. Come in. Now." Her voice was twice as tense. That tension in her voice only appeared two times: my first mission and my first mission with Alex Rider.
"I'm guessing a hit. And, Rider is involved." I got a noncommittal "hmm" for that.
I left the flat knowing I was right. She wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't right. I remembered the dark tunnels under New Orleans. He was lucky I didn't turn in for the night. I fit wasn't for me he would have been royally dead. Not even the bloody Queen of England could have stopped it. If anything, he owed me one. I didn't even get a chance to collect yet.
"What did you get yourself into this time, Rider?"
Six Months Ago, Moscow.
I pulled the trigger. Another useless guard dead. Sometimes I wondered if this was getting to be a national phenomenon. Useless help. The Americans finally had something right.
"Ivanov!" I walked back into the hangar. My army boots sent reverberations throughout the building. Three men, who I had come to know as "the men who will not be signing my checks", stood by 1,000kilos of coke. Not the drinking kind that Alex Rider loved. I only knew that from my trainer.
He had been the best of the best. I was just as good. Retirement suited him. I was taking the world by storm. The next assassin that everyone feared. I smiled. Three shots rang out and another team of gangsters appeared to collect the payload. I stood there, reticent.
"Your money is deposited." The boss looked at the bodies in disgust. I walked away. Another day, another job. At this rate, I would be joining my trainer in retirement in no time.
A voice carried me back from my dreams of martinis poolside. "Can I count on you to be on my side next time?"
I didn't answer.