Preface - 2001
Christmas had come early for Harry Bulman, who had stumbled across the scoop of the century, now he just had to get corroborating evidence before handing this gold mine to the vultures on Fleet Street. The files had arrived anonymously in a parcel left with his neighbour. The investigative reporter had no idea who had supplied data originating from the infamous terrorist group, SCORPIA. He had scanned the truth about Alexander John Rider and was already planning his next step. He was damn sure one of his friends in the SAS would give him a juicy quote off the record, about Stormbreaker and Cub. Here in black and white was proof MI6 had trained a fourteen year old, one who had taken down Herod Sayle, liberated a bunch of rich kids from a bizarre kidnap/murder plot, taken on the Triads, worked with the CIA several times, when the kid had died while investigating Nicholai Drevin and those eco-terrorists, Force Three.
The guaranteed front page splash would make him a household name. This was the pièce de résistance, as the press had really gone to town over the bomb on the Ark Angel Space Station. Then reality kicked in, sobering this former soldier, as he realised that his government had brutalised and as good as murdered a London school kid. In that moment, the story morphed from get rich quick scheme to this tabloid reporter earning his bread and butter, rather than his usual fodder of hacking phones and emails for celebrity dirt. He then noticed the name of Edward Pleasure in the file regarding the Cray business. A man still recovering from an assassination attempt in the summer. He would go to the horses mouth first and if he had to share the spoils, all the better for exposing MI6 for the child killing bastards they were.
…
Liz showed their unexpected guest into her husband's study, as he edited his piece about Desmond McCain. She had met Harry at the Press Association Awards two years ago and thought him just an ambulance chasing type of tabloid scum with no style and no substance. She had been pleasant, bantering bland chitchat, offered tea, all the while wondering what had brought him to their door.
"Sit, make yourself comfortable." Edward offered the chair normally occupied by Sabina's cat, Ruffles.
The ex-SAS soldier took in the details of the extensive library, four filing cabinets and bet their was two safes, a wall variety for appearances and one in the floor for the really dirty secrets. "I take it you get your manor scanned for bugs regularly, Ed?"
"After the trouble this summer, once a week." Edward sighed and came clean straight away. "I see you got my present."
Harry then connected the dots that Edward had been got by MI6, as the spooks had made him sign the OSA, so he could not break this story. "I'm honestly shocked you thought of me. Its not as if I have any form for this sort of big story."
"You were SAS. You have plausible insider connections. I want revenge, Harry. That boy went on holiday with us, saved my daughter's life from Cray. He disappeared in August, next thing I know he's died. I got those files from a very dirty source. One that hates Blunt and co as much as I do. Prove to me that you can get this in the open. Then we can both do the book. This is for Alex, may he rest in peace."
….
2007
….
After four years in development, the NSA Research facility in Washington State was in the final test stages of its AI facial recognition system. The intern rechecked the computer analysis of the full test run and then went to his supervisor.
"Sir, the data from Berlin has thrown up an anomaly."
The man groaned at the high probability of his Columbus Day weekend lost to major recoding. "What's the problem this time?"
"The sweep of Bundesplatz U-Bahn Main Entrance, our test grid, caused a full alert on the system for a CIA cross match. The problem is that Alexander John Rider, died on 9th November 2001 aged 14. The program computed for age changes, considering he's six years older, 97.5% chance that he's very much alive. The sweep picked him and our three known test subjects under disguise, as it was only using internal data sources. I don't have the clearance to stop the alert sent to Langley. This is live for them, now." The intern did not add that he had read the book on the Teen Spy. If half had happened to that kid happened to him, he would have run for cover. Then again how had he survived an bomb, unless he's landed in the Soyuz and the CIA had a dropped the ball. He just felt so guilty that he had outed the runaway.
Two hours later the phone for Joe Byrne rang in Beirut . He was now on the slow down to retirement as CIA liaison at the US Embassy. He picked up immediately recognising the number as the current deputy director of Covert Operations.
"Hi Sylvia, how's things at Langley?"
"I would like to say business as usual but we have an anomaly to check up on. Back in 2001, your surveillance of Nikolai Drevin is not on the system, understandably so due to credible deniability. Was Rider on Archangel when it blew up?"
Byrne grimaced at the memory of the lacklustre response from the US Navy and NASA over an extensive search and rescue for an enemy alien. "No, he made it into the Soyuz, but then all telemetry was lost after the explosion. We traced several of the larger fragments of debris, but without any communications the search was called off after 48 hours. Now you're going to tell me he survived and is on our radar again." It could only be Alex as that Grief Clone had been murdered just before Cossack escaped his British jailers in December 2001.
"NSA caught him on facial recognition in Berlin. Why would he hide out?"
"That's easy, SCORPIA wanted him dead. He'd already survived one assassination attempt. We found out in hindsight that both Kurst and Wu were planning his demise, after that internal coup in 2002, which wiped most of the board out. Only Dr Three is alive. Our analysts stated it was in-house cleaning. Possibly Cossack, but more likely Kroll, who we all suspected was MOSSAD anyway."
"Your replacement will be in Lebanon in four hours. Pack your stuff and bring the kid in."
…..
Another day commuting from Schoneberg to Oberschoneweider, after nine hours work in the coffee shop, near where he and Jack had hung out when he was nine. There were no familiar faces, but it felt like home enough for the young immigrant not to stand out. The wind was bitter this evening as he walked north-east over the Treskowbrucke. Rents in Schoneberg were prohibitive, when he could barely afford his share of the bills in the two room apartment in a rundown, ugly block of Soviet era apartments. He was fond of Mimi, the old queen he shared a flat with. Like himself, she was another of life's rejects. The transvestite had spent years in and out of prison for Western sympathies, always under Stasi surveillance, but still resolute enough to remain true to herself. Sasha had no hard or true legend to fit in legally, as he was just flotsam as an Economic Migrant in a city where thousands were welcomed from the Balkans and former Soviet Union to do menial work. Less lies all round, as Mimi just accepted the kid who moved in four years ago, as a man-child far too young to be living on his own, working far too hard just to live and eat and in danger of the less savoury elements in the city.
In his bag, were the leftovers as Liesl spoiled the poor motherless boy as she surmised he'd grown up in some godless orphanage as she muttered under her breath on the evils of the Communist heathens.
In truth, Alex had grown complacent as he momentarily glanced in the car wing mirror to see the spook expertly tailing him duck for cover. Like any normal person, he travelled the same route to work every day. On the bridge across the Spree, he had noted his shadow, fear gripped him as god only knew for how long he had been under surveillance. His instructors at Malagosto would be laughing saying he deserved the bullet coming his way. Yet, the spook hung back, only observing. The ex-spy was already planning his next moves, to slip away, to be safe. He had to act normally, not to alert the observers that they were rumbled. It was Sunday night, he had Monday and Tuesday off work. The best time for departure was during his morning run, that gave him time to say goodbye to Mimi. His friend deserved that.
He opened the door to the apartment to smell the usual odour of sour damp, coffee and the hint of Mimi's favourite perfume, Jolie Madame. In the hall, he took off his coat and scarf. Placed his bag on the small table and stood waiting for Mimi's attention. As his friend smiled, Alex sank to his knees, eyes lowered on the floor. The signal between them that the young man needed TLC, when he could not articulate hurt, loneliness and abandonment issues into words.
Full of concern, Mimi knew their usual remedy for the blues was an evening listening to classical music on the radio huddled under the covers, "Darling, Sasha. Come into the bedroom. Let's cuddle for a bit." The patient observer noted her beautiful companion made no attempt to move. As suggestion was not enough, orders were on the cards and their dynamic changed to more sexually charged, a role Mimi filled with ease, "Strip, bathroom, now."
Alex knelt on the cold bathroom floor as Mimi turned on the shower. The penitent slave then confessed, as the running water would mask conversation for any bugs listening in. He still spoke in a whisper, "I was followed home. I think I recognised the guy. Last time I saw him I was fourteen, before I ran away. I…." Tears threatened and Alex held back the sob in his throat as the CIA knew he was alive. "Its goodbye tonight, darling. However, this plays out, you'll need a new bedbug." Alex smiled and made eye contact, he had used the pet name Mimi had given the teenager, who used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare. There was no pretence of separate beds now. At twenty Alex was comfortable with this not quite love affair, more just two broken ex-players of the game of life seeking comfort. All their neighbours knew the pair cohabited and were no longer scandalised by the May to December relationship.
…
The video feed from the flat showed the older guy cane his sub, who dutifully asked for another stroke as each landed. The pain stopped at the number forty. The kid was sobbing by the time anal intercourse commenced. Joe Byrne had read the file on Markus Bernd Neumann, AKA Mimi. The Stazi had used the effeminate homosexual as a raven in the early seventies, then had imprisoned him when he grew a backbone and said no. How had Alex Rider ended up here, in a weird abusive relationship, working a shitty menial job, when he had the skills to be an assassin or a major player. The simple truth was Alex was happy staying well under the radar, playing dead. Mimi acting as a protector and carer of a kid who could not trust nor connect with anyone normal. It was not as if Alex had another choice, when MI6 had burned his existence from offical records.
Byrne sipped his coffee as he watched the sorry scene play out, then spoke softly to the survellience technician, "Turn it off, wipe the files and I mean destroy all backups" He then picked up his phone, more than ready to go back to his nice hotel for a few hours sleep.
The technician listened in, as this stakeout was the weirdest ever, on some kid barely shaving and seemingly worth a former deputy directors time.
"Afternoon, Sylvia. I know you've been waiting with baited breath for my assessment on Rider. I plan a soft contact approach. We offer him the full witness protection stateside. If he runs, we don't do anything. He's a mess. Our psychological team are likely to have a field day on the damage we've done to that great kid."
Byrne sighed, not caring this would be gossip around all their field office by morning, "He knows me, I need no backup. The Gardiner Legend will still work, so there should be no hiccups travelling across international borders without alerting any other agencies. Just courier that passport here for tomorrow. Lets keep this simple and between us."
….
Leaving the warmth and comfort of their bed after being in denial of his need to flee as he listened to the early morning traffic, Alex stepped onto the cold floor. He kissed the still sleeping lover then went to pack bare essentials and dress in his running clothes. He observed no onlookers as he exited via the rear door to the refuge bins. He hopped over the fence and then ran fast for the cover of trees and his planned route heading east to Erkner, to steal a car and drive to Poland and to keep running.
Byrne was sat at the bus stop waiting for Alex, even before the runner made it across An der Wuhlheide, stopping dead as he saw the spymaster was waiting for him, who had anticipated his escape route, knowing the young man had already left his life in Berlin behind. "I owe you more than I can repay, I cannot speak for my government as they tend to go for the easiest and cheapest option available" was a bold statement of fact.
Alex's face remained as impassive as if made of stone, "I know you were overruled about the search and rescue operation. That reporter did a fairly decent job of making your Secretary of State seem like a short sighted bean counter."
"That he did." Byrne smiled sadly. "NASA stated Drevin's bucket of bolts was doomed from the start, without a billionaire with genocidal tendencies. You saved tens of thousands again. All I can offer is a secondhand counterfeit passport in the name of Alex Gardiner and accompanying legend that will satisfy the Departments of State, Immigration and Customs and Border Protection. I have enough savings to get you stateside, Business Class, not Coach and you can live in my apartment in Georgetown, while I go back to sunning myself in Beirut".
"No spying for me?"
"Currently, you would fail both a physical and a psychological assessment as a field agent. Langley has some standards, not many, but some."