Chapter 3: Discovery

Five months Previous

Tulip Jones never wore heels. They were, in a word, nonsensical. And she had, in her earlier days as a field agent, had a very unpleasant experience with stiletto heels that were literally stilettos, and they were not ones that Smithers had designed. She had worn heels only once since then, at her wedding, but now wearing them was unthinkable. She preferred shoes that were black or dark brown, leather, not too expensive but not commonplace either, with rubber soles. Compartments that hid weapons and transmitters were optional, but she went to Smithers for those, not Harrod's.

The ones she wore now were her particular favorites. She had owned them for a few years now, and they were extremely comfortable. She could run a good distance in them, too, as she had been forced to find out on one occasion. And they let her keep her balance easily when she needed to deliver a roundhouse kick. There were a few other rather interesting things they could do, but right now she preferred them because they were silent. Not that stealth was of particular importance to her right now – the six SAS soldiers beside her banished any chances of that – but it was a comfort thing.

The group stopped in front of a plain white door, windowless, in a building full of such doors. Mrs. Jones stepped aside and let the SAS men open the door; three of them entered, weapons at the ready. Then she stepped inside, subconsciously feeling the reassuring weight of the gun at her side.

It was a plain room, with pale walls and no window. There was a single chair and a small desk. Books – mostly language workbooks and literary classics – were neatly ordered on the desk. There was a single pencil lying on a blank page of an open notebook.

If you looked closely, you could perhaps see that the furniture was made of plastic. But you would not be able to tell that if a certain gas was introduced to the room, it would immediately loose its structural strength and, for all intents and purposes, melt. Even the hospital equipment was made of the same material. There was, in fact, only one metal object in the room.

It was a pair of handcuffs, and they were titanium. They were around the hands of a man who was even more fair-skinned than usual; he had not seen the sun in some days. His hair was light blonde, and had grown out slightly from its normal military-style cut. He was clothing was beige, as colourless as the room, making his eyes even more startling. They were blue, very blue, but cold and flat. They showed no reaction when Mrs. Jones walked in, registered no emotion at the weapons pointed at him.

Mrs. Jones wished she had the same calm. On reading the specifications for this cell and the precautions taken with this prisoner, she had told Smithers that perhaps it was all a bit too much. But now that she was here she was glad for Smithers' failsafes. Still, she was sure that it was entirely possible for Yassen Gregorovich to kill her even with both hands tied behind his back and a still severe wound in his chest. Fortunately for her, though, he had no reason to kill her. Or so she hoped.

But she was here on business – private business, it so happened. MI6 would not hear this conversation; the SAS men with her would not speak of it.

"Did you speak to Alex Rider about his father?" she asked, with no preamble.

If the Russian was surprised he hid it well. Not a muscle on his face moved; he was seated on the bed the same as before. The monitors attached to his body showed no sign of change. Mrs. Jones was watching his eyes, though, and for a second she thought she saw a flash of something...

She stood there, waiting, and for five minutes there was silence. She turned to leave.

The door opened; she started to walk through.

"Mrs. Jones," Gregorovich said, quietly. She stopped, and motioned to the men to shut the door. No need to be careless.

"Yes?"

There was a pause as she looked at him.

"Is Alex well?"

A curious question. Mrs. Jones considered. Alex was fine, physically, but there was something troubling him. Something, perhaps, that Yassen had said to him.

"Yes," she answered, and noted the small change in his eyes before leaving the room.

Alex looked up from the paper. "You're bringing me to see him based on three words?" he asked, slightly incredulous.

"It seems Yassen has some interest in you," Crawley said, as if it was a cheerful thought.

"Like anyone he's ever been interested in is still alive," Alex grumbled. "And, before you say something else, I know why. He thought my dad worked for Scorpia, and he wanted me to find them. That's what he told me." Too late, he realized that he had never told this to MI6 before – at least, he hadn't exactlysaid that Yassen was the reason he had gone to find Scorpia in the first place.

Crawley reached out and took the paper Alex was waving around, then neatly filed it in his briefcase. "He worked with your father for a considerable time. We don't how close they were -" Alex snorted, angry at the idea that John Rider could have become friends with a killer like Yassen - "or how you, as John Rider's son, could influence him."

Alex fell silent, and stared out the tinted bulletproof window at the London suburbs rolling by. Crawley made sense, he had to admit. Yassen had told Alex to stay out of the business. It was no place for a boy, he'd said. Later, he had refused to kill Alex, even at the cost of his own life. Or so it had seemed at the time.

"Why didn't you kill him?" Alex mused aloud.

Crawley tried his best to look shocked. Alex grimaced; the man would never win a Golden Globe. "Alex! This is Britain! A man, even one as dangerous as Gregorovich, has a right to a fair trial."

Alex wondered when he had grown so jaded that he was skeptical of Crawley's explanation. "You didn't have to save him," he insisted. "He was dying. If the paramedics had been just a bit slower, or the surgeon had been inexperienced..." He stopped at the look on Crawley's face, which was one of genuine distaste now.

"Alex," he said sternly. "The paramedics do not differentiate between teenage spies and assassins. Neither do doctors. Not helping him, no matter how... convenient...would be wrong."

Alex heard the unspoken sentence: but it is nothing MI6 hasn't done. So they must have had a reason for keeping Yassen alive. "How long have you known about this Russian thing?" he asked.

"We've been watching our Russian friends for some time now. We've never stopped, actually. Hard fellows to trust, ever since the Cold War. But this particular case came to attention about a year ago."

So that made sense. The only reason Yassen was alive was for the very purpose Alex was visiting; to provide MI6 with information about a series of suspicious happenings that may or may not be connected. Alex wished he had more information, but he knew Crawley wouldn't tell him.

And how could he be sure Yassen would know anyway? The man worked for Scorpia, but surely there were other Scorpia agents and double agents they could use if Scorpia was the agency behind the problems. Or maybe it was because he was Russian... but Yassen had never seemed like a patriot to him. He cared only about the money, or so he'd told Alex. Cray had made it sound like he was helping Russia by ridding the world of drugs, but Yassen had said nothing to confirm that. Maybe, Alex thought, he had some connection with the Russian Mafiya or intelligence. It was certainly possible; after all, he knew very little about his history, besides what Ash had told him. And hadn't Ash mentioned the Mafiya somewhere? Providing he had been telling the truth, Alex recalled bitterly.

In a way, you and Yassen had a lot in common. Alex rejected the thought. He could never be the cold-blooded killer Yassen was; he had even tried, and failed. Find Scorpia, and you will find your destiny. What had the Russian meant? Alex had assumed he wanted Alex to know about his father. But it was MI6, not Scorpia, who had told him the truth in the end. Though if Alex hadn't gone to Scorpia, he may never have known. Perhaps Yassen had wanted Alex to become an assassin like him, if they were really as alike as Ash had made it seem. But before he had tried to keep Alex away from the spy world instead of making him a part of it.

Alex sighed. Crawley was right; there was no doubt Yassen cared about what happened to him. But why? Because of John Rider? Because of Scorpia? Or because maybe in some twisted way Alex reminded him of himself? Obviously he didn't care that much, though, or he wouldn't have killed Ian Rider - which was, after all, the event that had started Alex out on the whole spy thing in the first place. To say nothing of leaving Alex in a ring with a mad bull.

Whatever the reason, there was no way Alex was going to treat the Russian like one of his father's old friends. They didn't exactly have the greatest reputation, for one, and for another, Yassen was just plain dangerous. Alex had seen him kill, multiple times, and what scared him the most was the utter coldness with which the assassin did his job. Not even a second of hesitation. Inhuman. Unnatural. Not a thought of how ...

Is this how his father had been? He had, if Ash and MI6 were to believe, trained Yassen. Was his father also a man who could ... Alex refused to complete that thought. John Rider was different. He was a solder and a patriot, doing what he did because he believed in his country and that by doing what he did he made the world a safer place. Even if it meant training killers. But Yassen would gun down a man for dropping a box, or stop to kill three agents while he was escaping an ambush.

Alex sighed. At least, he was sure, he would be back before midnight. He couldn't see that there was a way Yassen would tell MI6 anything just because he was there.

He should have known better. MI6 had never had him back before midnight.