I'm back, guys! I hope this turns out well! Just a quick note: I've become attached to my character of Camryn Albright, so I decided to keep her, but this story is completely separate from the Alex Rider stories I've written before. I've made a few detail changes to the character, and Alex and Camryn are meeting for the first time. I hope you guys enjoy this!

FULL SUMMARY:With the ever-dwindling resources on Earth, people have been looking beyond the skies for new habitation. When Russian scientist and multibillionaire, Fyodor Budanov, launches an experimental space station that simulates life on Earth, things begin to quickly change. Of course, MI6 is suspicious and decides to get someone on the inside. This time, Alex Rider is not alone. He teams up with fellow agent, Camryn Albright, to find out if there is more to this space station than meets the eye. The fate of the world may depend on them both.


The phone rang only once before Tulip Jones picked up the receiver. She almost sighed with relief as she set a thick file down on her desk. The Special Operations division of MI6 had never been busier. Then again, the world had never been more of a mess. With hundreds of agents spread out on assignments all over the globe, the stack of reports on Mrs. Jones's desk inevitably grew, though she hadn't imagined the pile would grow so exponentially. Most of her time spent sitting in the gray, dull office was directed toward reading these reports and making decisions based upon the information they contained. She was glad the phone rang. It gave her an opportunity to stop reading and rest her eyes.

"Hello," Mrs. Jones answered.

"Mrs. Jones," replied the voice of Jessica Thompson, Mrs. Jones's secretary, "I have Agent Rider on the line. He says he needs to speak with you. Urgently."

"Patch him through." A soft click told Mrs. Jones that Ms. Thompson had connected her to the agent. "Hello, Alex."

"I need a favor," Alex Rider said, getting straight to the point.

"What is it?"

"I need ten kilos of cocaine."

"What?" Mrs. Jones demanded, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice. "What do you need ten kilos of cocaine for?"

"I've got Rodriguez and Tamarkin hooked. Please, I don't have time to explain."

The director of MI6 sighed. This was another one of Alex Rider's unorthodox plans. Though she was reluctant, Mrs. Jones knew she had to give Alex what he wanted. No matter how ridiculous his ideas were, they always worked out somehow. That was the beauty of Alex's talent as a spy. The twenty-three-year-old just had this uncanny way of knowing what to do. "Alright, fine. When and where do you want it delivered?"

"I need it by this time tomorrow. There's a pub in Moscow-"

"Moscow?!" Mrs. Jones cried. "I thought you were in Colombia."

"I was. Now I'm in Moscow. Mrs. Jones, please, I really don't have a lot of time."

Mrs. Jones sighed again. She looked up at the clock hanging on the wall to her right. It was two thirty in the afternoon - five thirty in the evening in Moscow. "What's the name of the pub?"

"It's called Красный Молоток – The Red Hammer. I'll send you photo of what I want the bricks to look like. It's crucial that the bricks be identical to the photo."

"I'll send someone in to deliver the package. It will be the usual code phrase."

"Got it. Thank you!"

Without another word, Mrs. Jones disconnected the line and dialed her secretary. "Ms. Thompson, please get me Agent Albright on the line."


Camryn Albright lay asleep in her flat in Stamford Street Halls, across the Thames from King's College where she was a student. She was sprawled her bed, face down on a textbook. She had spent all night studying for her Advanced Biochemistry course. Final exam period was hell enough for ordinary students. Unfortunately for Camryn, she was not an ordinary student. The previous three weeks had been a study period in which students no longer had classes to attend so that they could focus their full attention on studying for exams. Naturally, other students were studying.

Camryn, on the other hand, had been in Belgrade, Serbia for two weeks, posing as a bartender at an upscale nightclub. She was investigating Dejan Sakic, a suspected arms dealer. Sakic had held numerous phone conversations with Hafiz Afshar, a known Iranian religious fundamentalist with a knack for violent crime. Eventually, the two had met in Sakic's VIP room at a club in Belgrade. An MI6 analyst who was investigating Sakic happened across satellite photos of Afshar walking into Sakic's favorite club and immediately began digging for information. The information ended up in a report, encased in a blue file, which found its way to Mrs. Jones's desk.

Млад Месец – The New Moon nightclub – was Sakic's favorite because the club's staff consisted primarily of young, attractive girls in need of money – for school, for their families, for drugs, Sakic didn't care. Many of the girls were willing to go above and beyond their job descriptions for tips and extra money. The staff was always changing, new faces coming and going every few months. This kept the vibe and experience of the club fresh. It was perfect for men like Sakic who easily grew bored. The constantly changing staff made it an excellent place for Sakic to hold his business meetings without raising too much suspicion among the regulars.

It was also the perfect place for MI6 to station their own eyes and ears. Mrs. Jones needed someone female, young, and attractive who could pass for someone with Slavic decent. She had just the girl. Twenty-two years old, half-Russian, and fluent in multiple Eastern European languages, Camryn Albright was perfect for the job. In the end, the simple surveillance mission escalated into a full scale sting operation.

Camryn had come back to London completely drained of energy with only four days left to study for the first of her exams. After a series of all-nighters, dozens of cups of coffee, and a handful of power naps, she had managed to do well on her exams and finish her papers thus far. Advanced Biochemistry was her last exam, and she had Friday and the weekend to study. Mental exhaustion and lack of sleep finally caught up to her, leaving her sprawling on her notes and drooling onto her textbook.

Suddenly, an upbeat tune cut through the silence, jolting Camryn awake. She grumbled and groaned as she lifted her head and fumbled around for her phone. She finally found it and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello?" Camryn answered, trying not to sound tired.

"Hello, Camryn," said the familiar female voice of Mrs. Jones's secretary. "You sound like you've just woken up. Were you asleep?"

"Um, sort of."

"Mrs. Jones would like to speak to you. Please hold while I connect you."

There was a soft click followed by the voice of the director of MI6. "Hello, Camryn. How are your exams going?"

"Alright, I guess." Camryn frowned. She knew Mrs. Jones could care less about how she was doing on her exams. "But let's cut to the chase. I doubt you called only to ask about my marks in school."

"You're right. I need you to deliver a package. Please come in to Liverpool Street, and I will fill you in on all the details."

"What? Are you kidding? I have an exam on Monday!"

"It's a quick drop. It will take you less than a day, and then you can go back to studying."

Camryn sighed. "Fine. I'll take the next bus. I should be there in fifteen or twenty minutes." She hung up the phone and reluctantly heaved herself out of bed.


The next day, Alex Rider was sitting at the bar at The Red Hammer pub at quarter after five. He wore a dark gray, fitted suit with a light blue shirt and navy tie. Beside him sat a dark-haired man in his early thirties. The man wore a black pinstripe suit with a white shirt and red, striped tie. The man's name was Grigori Petrov. He was one of MI6's many assets in Eastern Europe. He was deeply involved in drug and human trafficking.

Grigori had connections with a man named Ivan Tamarkin. Tamarkin was a dealer of all sorts – drugs, weapons, prostitutes, dangerous information, government secrets, whatever brought him money. He often employed Grigori to mediate deals on his behalf instead of being present himself. Tamarkin had recently traded one hundred army surplus semiautomatic machine guns for ten kilograms of cocaine with a drug dealer, Alonzo Rodriguez, in Southern Colombia. But he was receiving much more than bricks of cocaine.

The last MI6 agent that had been sent into Colombia to investigate Rodriguez had blown his cover and was eventually killed. He was captured, tortured, and interrogated. In a last ditch attempt to save his own life, the agent had given away the names of several of MI6's assets involved in the realm of drug trafficking. Rodriguez was in need of more up-to-date weapons to defend his estate; thus he contacted Tamarkin. When he offered ten kilograms of cocaine for one hundred machine guns, Tamarkin had laughed hysterically. This had to be a joke. But when Rodriguez added that he had a list of names of MI6 assets, six of them working in Russia, Tamarkin took the deal.

The list of names was loaded onto a microchip, and the microchip was hidden in one of the bricks of cocaine. As he had done so many times before, Tamarkin hired Grigori to mediate the deal and meet with whomever Rodriguez decided to send to Moscow. Alex had initially infiltrated Rodriguez's operation by posing as a potential buyer. By the time he discovered Rodriguez's plan for hiding the microchip in the cocaine, the bricks of hard drugs were already being smuggled out of the country and en route to Russia. It was too late for Alex to intercept the drugs before they arrived in Russia, so he rushed to beat Rodriguez's man to Moscow. Alex was now posing as one of Grigori's personal guard. Once the deal went through, Alex would switch the drugs from Rodriguez with the ones he was supposed to receive today from MI6. Once MI6 had the microchip in their hands, they would have sufficient, tangible evidence to move against both Tamarkin and Rodriguez.

Alex glanced sideways at Grigori. The Russian was obviously nervous. He was always nervous when MI6 was involved. Alex couldn't help but smile. He knew his plan would work. It was simple. It was perfect.

"What are you smiling about?" Grigori asked in English before taking a swig of vodka from his glass. His words were thickly coated with a heavy Russian accent.

"Don't be so nervous," Alex said confidently.

"I'm not nervous," the Russian said defensively.

"Sure," Alex sighed and brought his beer bottle to his lips. He'd been watching Grigori twist a thick silver ring around his middle finger. When Grigori wasn't playing with the ring, he was turning his glass of vodka in circles on the bar surface.

"When are you receiving the package? The deal goes down in two hours."

"Relax, it should be here any minute now."

Grigori frowned. He didn't like other people telling him to relax.


To anyone on the street, Camryn Albright looked like any other ordinary Russian girl, heading to the pub after class, with her black backpack still slung over one shoulder. Though it was early June, evenings were a bit chiller in Moscow than in London. She wore a gray twill jacket over a pale blue v-neck T-shirt with a thin white scarf wound around her neck. Her dark, tight-fitting skinny jeans were tucked into black combat boots that looked more fashionable than functional. The pale blue shirt and white scarf brought out the girl's intelligent and watchful gray eyes. Her chestnut waves were tied in a ponytail that bounced as she jogged across the street just before the traffic lights changed.

On this Friday evening, The Red Hammer was crawling with people. The crowd consisted mainly of people who had just gotten off work. A group of University of Moscow professors sat at one of the tables. A group of construction workers had taken over the back corner of the pub. Some businessmen were talking enthusiastically at the bar. And of course, there were some mingling college students here and there. As Camryn walked into the pub, she immediately spotted two businessmen sitting at the bar. The first was tall dark-haired, dark-eyed, and in his thirties. He wore a dark suit with pinstripes. His red tie stood out against the black and white of the rest of his outfit. Though he was dressed like one, he didn't carry himself like a businessman. He seemed tense and unapproachable. His back was slouched as he stared into his drink, nervously turning the glass in circles. The angles of the man's face made it obvious that he was Russian. Suddenly, the man frowned as if irritated by something the man next to him had said. The man sitting next to the dark-haired Russian carried himself with a certain confidence. He was smiling slightly as he tipped his beer bottle against his lips. This man looked about twenty-three years old. He was as tall as the Russian and built like an athlete with good posture. He had light brown hair that boyishly hung into his deep brown eyes. His dark gray suit was closely fitted, showing off his impressive physique. He had an interesting, handsome face with an inviting smile. At the same time, his serious eyes gave off a vibe of mysteriousness and guardedness, which it made him all the more attractive.

The man took another drink from his beer bottle. The way he held the bottle and the way he drank were clearly English. Even without this little detail, Camryn would have known the man was English. She recognized him from the photograph Mrs. Jones had shown her. This was Agent Alex Rider – the recipient of the bricks of cocaine weighing down the backpack. Camryn recognized the other man as well. He was Grigori Petrov, an MI6 asset in the drug world.

Camryn took a deep breath. It took all of her will power not to rush over, drop the code phrase, leave the backpack, and catch the next flight home to her books. It shouldn't take much longer anyway. Calm and collected, she strode over to the bar. She placed the backpack on the floor and slid into the barstool beside Alex Rider. The Englishman turned to look at her as she sat down.

Camryn flashed him a casual grin and gestured toward his drink. "Простите, пожалуйста. Что вы пьете?"


Alex looked up as he saw someone move into his peripheral vision. A young, attractive Russian girl sat in the barstool left of him, dropping her backpack on the floor. She looked to be about Alex's age, maybe a bit younger. She was average height, slim, and very fit. A strand of her brown waves fell across her face as she smiled at him. Alex smiled back as the girl gestured toward the beer bottle in his hand.

"Простите, пожалуйста. Что вы пьете?" she asked, sweeping the strand of hair behind her ear.

"Um…" Alex fumbled. He silently sighed. Of the many languages he spoke, why couldn't one of them be Russian?

"She asked you what you're drinking," Grigori said from Alex's right.

"Oh," Alex muttered. He turned the bottle to show the girl the label.

"Cпасибо," the girl said. Thank you. That was the one of the few words Alex did know in Russian. The girl waved at the bartender and ordered a drink.

Alex looked at his watch. It was almost five thirty. He hoped whoever Mrs. Jones had sent to deliver his package would come soon.

"So, you're American?" the girl asked in English. Alex heart skipped a beat, recognizing the girl's accent. She was unmistakably a Londoner. He was astonished. He swore she looked Russian.

"No, I'm English," Alex replied. Maybe it's her, he thought.

"What brings you to Moscow?" The bartender came back and handed the girl a beer, the same as Alex was drinking. She thanked the bartender and took a swig from the bottle.

Alex smiled and clapped Grigori on the shoulder. "Business trip. I came out here to meet with this guy. I'm Alex, by the way. And this is Grigori." Alex held out his hand.

The girl shook his outreached hand. "I'm Camryn." Grigori did not reach out to shake Camryn's hand but simply gave her a nod of acknowledgement, which she returned. Then she turned back to Alex. "So, you're a Londoner, yeah?"

Alex nodded.

"Please tell me you're not a Liverpool fan."

That was it – the code phrase. Alex laughed nervously. "Oh no, I support Chelsea."

Camryn sighed and let out an exasperated chuckle. "Well there goes hoping we could become friends. I support Manchester United."

"That's unfortunate. Such a pretty girl…" Alex mused.

Camryn blushed. She opened her mouth to say something, but then decided against it and drank more of her beer. She smiled to herself. What no one had noticed was that once Camryn had said the code phrase, Alex, who had his own black backpack identical to hers, had switched the backpacks with his feet under the cover of the bar. When Camryn left the bar later, she walked out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, just as she had when she walked in earlier. Except when she walked out, the backpack she carried was full of blank paper. Not too long afterward, Alex left with his Russian asset and ten kilograms of cocaine.

Neither of them knew it at the time, but this moment marked the birth of the dynamic duo that would one day be famous not only at Liverpool Street but also Downing Street. Alex Rider and Camryn Albright.