Paul Drevin stood and looked out at the Manhattan skyline from the private dining room at the Rockefeller Centre, where he was attending a charity lunch hosted by Paul Roscoe. He wondered on his invitation, as the Drevin name no longer opened doors. The ArkAngel Project and his father's links with terrorists, not to mention his own botched kidnapping, had been a wake up call to the sheltered and often ill only son of the then billionaire. Now twenty-one, he was at MIT studying Computer Science and personally interested in Robotics for use in extreme environments, but looking at becoming a lawyer rather than a space engineer. He was no larger than life business entrepreneur. The bulk of money he inherited, was in trust until he was 25 and then he would give the tainted legacy away to charity. He had made peace with his past and often wondered at what point had his father gone insane.
The other attendees were thinning out and Paul Roscoe came over to network with his specially invited guest. "I'd like to introduce you to some school friends of mine, one wasn't able to attend, our mutual friend Alex Rider. He had work commitments in Siberia."
Paul had not been back to Russia in years and wondered why his one time friend was there. "Is he still working for the CIA?"
The tall blond billionaire grimaced "No. I have a present for you, best to read the relevant pages, which are marked. Then you understand what happened to Alex, before we shatter your illusions about spy boy."
Paul remembered the Brennan abductions on the news when he was at High School. The guy who had torturing and raping the son of a politician and the foster son of the English reporter, the author of this book. The description of Alex was beautifully detailed and accurate considering he had known his tarnished hero for less than a month. Dear God, even when he tried to hate Alex, he found he could not, as his former friend had been forced by the CIA into working for them. The American son of the Russian billionaire felt no empathy for his father's secretary, the real CIA spy who had manipulated Alex and forced him onto the Space Station to stop the bomb falling on Washington. Alex was always the hero and his father the villain.
The slight, pale dark haired man could not help but feel awful as he read the grim details of Alex's abduction and its aftermath with the long rehabilitation of his smashed leg and therapy to get over the deep psychological damage, mistrust and acceptance of his own sexuality. Alex was gay, a revelation brought a smile to Paul's face, as he mused on his own long buried feelings on his blond crush.
By the bar were a group of seven men, all obviously at ease with each other, chatting and joking with easy camaraderie. As a geek, Paul Drevin had only started making friends at college, where most did not care or did not connect him to the Russian Plutocrat.
Without any pretence, Paul introduced his namesake to his brothers in adversity "Guys, this is Paul Drevin. He met Alex in London. So, Introductions, you know me, Cassian, James, Nick , Hugo, Joe and Tom. We are the Point Blanc Alumni, one school you are very lucky not to have gotten an invite to. So, Alex is working for an absolute bastard, you might know him personally, Maxim Belkov."
"Oh, him. As security? Can't be, not with his disability?"
"Escort and personal security." James said quietly. "Getting paid a fortune by his effective master. Said he was happy whoring himself out, those were his words. Has been employed by Belkov for about fifteen months."
Paul did the math, Alex had sold himself to a man with no morals at nineteen.
The son of Dieter Sprintz then pulled out a file of information gathered by detectives in London. "Before that he was affiliated with some less than savoury types in South London. Working for the mob. No conclusive proof, but its highly likely Alex was a rent boy during his initial return to London as he was homeless." The twenty-two year old close friend of Alex put the file down so all could read its contents. "Our hero and saviour was left high and dry by both the CIA and MI6. Alex left state care in California with less than $1000 to his name, a high school certificate, but no real prospect of college or a decent job. Hence driven to whore himself out." With a long drink of perfectly chilled imported spring water, the former close friend of spy boy concluded "We were all busy with our own lives and I fear we're too late to help Alex as he does neither want nor expect anything from anybody. I don't think Alex would accept charity or saving from his profession, considering he as much told me that when we crossed paths in December. Alex is living the life of luxury, as a well kept pet."
Drevin then added "Belkov is not a man to cross. My mother sold off my father's holdings in Russia to him. Not that I blame her, as my father had left us with considerable debts to pay at short notice and the deal meant we kept our non liquid assets intact. That man was charm himself to her and we were in no position to bargain. He liquidated two others interested in the Drevin Holdings, my mother settled out of fear in the end, though the man made no outright threats about my well being, he manipulated the situation like the devil himself."
The meeting formed no plan of action, beyond all promising to contact Alex in the hope he might consider friendship, if nothing else.
….
Alex both loved and hated the harsh winters of his present home. It was the end of March and he was skiing across the estate in the early afternoon. He knew he would ache tomorrow but the sting of the subzero air, was so completely different from his skiing holidays as a child. This was exhilarating. Completely alone in the near silence of perfect white only broken by distant trees. He pushed himself up the slope in freestyle before settling back into nordic style on the flat. He had escaped today to think.
Alex stopped on the next rise, his point for turning back. Pausing to scan the horizon, no habitation, near the estate house for miles except for the staff; the nearest town in the opposite direction 20 kilometres away. The flat open landscape, with sparse copses of trees. He could carry on, keep skiing and freeze to death before midnight, even wearing his superb survival clothes. He closed his eyes and thought of Oxshot woods, his comfort was that he could choose the time and place of his own demise. Happy being completely alone, no longer a hero to anyone. He dictated all contact with his few close friends, More and more, Maxim was enough with his strange possessiveness. Alex's role was completely separate from the general security detail, in fact he had just been assigned his own bodyguards. Maxim had employed four British mercenaries for that task alone. Alex needed to have a serious talk with his employer and this sudden change in priorities. He was just paid entertainment, nothing more. That was the deal, no point changing the goal posts now. He turned and pushed himself downhill, crouching low to gain speed.
Alex arrived back, showered in the gym and overheard one of his new bodyguards getting told off for staying in the warm.
Mark Jacobs looked in disgust at the youngest member of his three man security team. "So, our mark has been outside for 2 hours skiing on his own and what part of full 24/7 surveillance do you not comprehend. You either went with him or put yourself in a position to watch over him. We are all trained snipers. This may be home turf, but that doesn't mean we sit on our arses looking pretty." No, that Rider's job, the bodyguard thought darkly. The retired Master Sergeant in the 2 Para, dare not think what Lt. John Rider would have thought of his only child working as a high class escort and paid killer. Maybe he would be OK with it, if his boy had been companion to some rich bird, but bending over and taking it from a Russian psycho, his former comrade in arms must be spinning in his grave. It was no secret that the Rider's kid was a master assassin on the books to protect Belkov from his ever growing list of enemies. As good looking as his dad, but with no interest in anyone except his master.
Damien Fairweather rubbed the bruises on his side, proof that Rider did not need any protection detail. "The boy toy can look after himself, Sergeant. He sparred with me this morning. I thought he was just a ponce. Three moves and I was on the floor. Whoever he worked for before trained him well."
The older man knew precisely how deadly the 22 year old was. "He was called Cub by the SAS in 2001. You may have scoffed at the rumours about the teen agent handled by MI6. The reality is ten operations in fifteen months for the spooks in London, Washington and Sydney; including going undercover and taking down SCORPIA. Shot in the chest, then some bastard fucked his leg and put him out of action. Last I heard from the bastards at Special Forces Training, was the former wunderkind was being pimped by the Manning's."
"Who?" queried the thirty five year old ex Marine.
Alex then answered that question, "The Manning brothers, they run everything east of Streatham and south of the river and west of Wapping. You may have heard of my mate Looney Dave."
The older mercenary knew that crook's dubious reputation. "As in the Heathrow job?"
"Yeah…. Second biggest robbery in London ever. Most of the bearer bonds were never recovered. He's like my fairy godmother." Dave had been convicted as the getaway driver, only he took his 15 year sentence with a smile and kept his mouth shut about the others involved. Got parole after seven years for good behaviour. "Someone called him a ponce in the Scrubs, that idiot now dribbles all day long and shits into a nappy. All the witnesses say he tripped and fell downstairs. I'd be polite considering if I hear you call Maxim any derogatory names I'll do the same amount of damage to you and you won't live long enough to make it to hospital here". Alex then returned to his room, silently moving along the corridor, his soft footfalls like a cat's, his limp not affecting his stealth.
"Fuck, he's a proper nutter."
"Yeah, keep on his right side and he'll use all those skills to keep us all alive. Two years ago Belkov lost five bodyguards in a car bombing; not one fatality or serious injury since laughing boy there came to work here. The whole set up is top end, the training here is on par with Credenhill. Half the staff here respect Rider, the other half are shit scared of him. His only friend is Ivan, who I bet is FSB."
"What has my life come to? Working to protect a billionaire's boy toy!"
"Yeah, get over it." The ex-army sergeant could almost pity the kid, only he was not a victim, but a survivor tempered by adversity. He had seen the kid with Belkov. It wasn't just master and servant; the pair, both jaded by their hard lives, were lovers. He had no problem protecting the Russian's most prized possession. Rider's dad had a reputation for fucking anything that moved, male and female. He was the best soldier he had ever known. In 1983, he had thought the officers dishonourable discharge had been a put up job. All the facts pointed to the older Rider dying because of MI6's games. He had been asked to pass on info about their former prize. He'd tell them nothing useful. He knew that this was a decent job and he hoped it lasted, considering he was getting paid double his normal rates.
…
Alex dressed like he was about to go night clubbing, not just the usual Wednesday night dinner. Tight soft black leather trousers, no underpants matched with a sheer shirt. He looked the business as he assessed his reflection in the full length mirror. He was aiming to push Max's buttons, and try to persuade him that his paranoia was edging into insanity. First Alex needed to read the files on these mercenaries, just to make sure none of these babysitters were moles.