The room was not quite dark, only illuminated by the eerie glow of the street lighting. The small space was decorated in fussy drapes, dark woodwork and floral wallpaper. The narrow bed was too soft. He wished for his bed back in London, now in storage. This early summer night was uncomfortably humid and the only comfort was the constant hum of traffic. The man in the bed was prone and silent, praying he had awaken without vocalising the screams that had been piercing his dream. He could hear soft snores from the other occupant in the apartment, his landlady; an overweight and disturbingly motherly widow. After his breathing had slowed and his heart was no longer hammering in his chest. He felt waves of cause as he sat up and really needed some fresh air.

He had travelled south-west on an empty metro to Novodevichy Cemetery. To see the grave of the man who tonight haunted his dreams. Alex knew the general location of the General's grave among the rows of stone memorials. His tomb was plain and unpretentious, next to a similar monument for his beloved son. In the peaceful and serene corner of Moscow, there was no indication that this was the grave of a would-be tyrant, a traitor and a madman. There were a couple of wilting floral tributes on both graves. Was Vladimir's mother dutifully attending to their memory? Alex had never laid flowers on Ian's grave. That man did not deserve them. He had not been invited to Jack's funeral, no one in London had even mentioned a service or memorial. It was as if he had meant nothing to Jack, that she had simply been just a housekeeper. He would want a simple cremation, like Maria's. No pretence at an afterlife or any religious mumbo-jumbo. He wanted his ashes dumped into the mine shaft in Cornwall, the place Alex Rider had ceased to be and had become a weapon. Here, he was dancing, which was only a smoke screen for the deadly operative lurking beneath the surface.

There was footsteps on gravel, signalling the arrival of another visitor paying their respects in the early morning. The young man smiled to himself as he had no such good intentions. He was only chasing his own demons. He glanced around to see a grey haired man holding a bunch of flowers and a burly blond bodyguard, who had drawn his gun. In the ensuing impasse, the ex-spy raised his hands and lowered himself gracefully to his knees, keeping his eyes on the gun.

It was the older grey haired man, who broke the silence "Is that necessary, Kolya? Can't you see that Aleksandr also has trouble sleeping? Why else would he be outside at 4am and not at home in bed."

The stern security operative stowed his weapon and then proceeded to frisk the young man. Then shrugging nonchalantly after finding the youth was clean. Alex wondered how this encounter would play out as he stood up and then dusted off his track suit bottoms.

"So Kolya, this is Alex Rider."

"Its Sasha Makarov." Alex stated angrily, then he paused and politely added "Your Excellency."

"Call me Boris. You have grown into a fine young man, Sasha." The man smiled fondly. "You are so like Vladimir, but I'm sure Alexei told you that often enough."

Alex remained silent, but glanced at the other grave, a boy born in 1970 and who died in 1988. It was a comparison he could not comment on as he had only seen a black and white photo of the seventeen year old sniper.

Boris Kiriyenko, ex-president and recluse, put his flowers on both graves. "I have already visited my wife's resting place. I normally have a chat with Alexei, but today I have a living conversationalist. Come, lets have breakfast and talk about old times." Here was the boy, who had witnessed Alexei Sarov's suicide and had, according to the reports from Murmansk in 2002, been severely traumatised by it. In hindsight, Boris regretted his actions, but none more so than forgetting about that mysterious English boy. Over the years he had kept up to date with the detailed security file on Alex Rider. One which stated that boy had returned to England to fall afoul of tragedy after tragedy, then had run away to become a drug addict and whore. From such depravity, the boy's strength of character had shown through, as he had picked himself up to pursue such a worthy and beautiful vocation.

In the marble splendour of the bathroom at the ex-president's Kremlin apartment, Alex mused on the fact he had initially had such a poor impression of Boris. It only proved the point the General had drugged his old friend with a de-inhibitor to get him to act out of character to such an amazing degree. He had gotten to know the ex-president of Russia. A man who still had fingers in many pies and was still an astute politician, with many connections both at home and abroad. Boris was quite a card and very much a player. He had chosen to share his loneliness with Alex and talked about his late wife and two daughters and about Alexei Sarov and the boy he also thought of as a son, Vladimir. The man described the General as his lifelong friend, the hero, the patriot, a good father and family man. The young dancer was sure the politician had believed that he actually was the biological son of that man. No matter, that he did not acknowledge the General except by his military rank. He inspected his reflection in the mirror. It was just a freaky fact that post nose job he looked even more like Vladimir Sarov, when he had wanted to look like Rudolf Nureyev.

He did not sit back down at the table still laden with enough hearty bread, cheese and sausage to feed at least four men. "I have class in an hour." The young dancer then wondered why this man was making time for a stranger.

"Kolya will drive you. In fact I will see you dance." Boris offered jovially.

"Its practice, just stretches and working out."

"Then you can dance for me after your class." There was a hard glint to the man's eyes, Boris Kiriyenko was definitely not the buffoon fourteen year old Alex had dismissed him as, but he was a man used to getting his own way.

….

After three days of going the main dance class with the juniors and corps de ballet, Alex was rocking the boat by bringing uninvited guests, but these interlopers had cache as it was the ex-president and his surly bodyguard.

Alex had plenty of time to get his gym bag and to arrived in good time to be only the fourth person at the rehearsal room. He dutifully collected a chair for Boris and placed it by the pianist. He then went to seek out the Ballet Master, to apologise for the intrusion. It could be worse, at least Boris was sober and in good humour, trading jokes with the normally sour musician.

As the dancers strolled in, the Secretary bustled in laden with a tray of tea and cakes for the honoured guest and then Alex had to listen as Boris make up fairy tales spinning the yarn that Sasha was the golden son of a beloved friend.

….

Boris had been entertained during the practice class, with Kolya enjoying the refreshments. The sixty-nine year old politician had learned the hard way not to trust offered delicacies. At the end of class, he watched as Alex had danced three well known solos from the Bolshoi repertoire to entertain the spectators which comprised most of the class.

His thoughts were drawn to the contact report he had been copied into from London and from the past four days in Moscow. The boy did not party, was not promiscuous and worked extremely hard. His only fault seemed to be a close friendship with the gangster in London, Paul McAlaster. Alex continued to treat Vladimir Stravenkov as family. It hurt his heart that Alexei had been so cruel in his insanity. In hindsight, Alex should have been offered a home here, not the mockery of home that Alexei had tried to force on the boy. Alex had been quite vocal in his assertion that the hard road he had travelled had been necessary to shape him into the dancer he was today. Surely, a place at ballet school, with love and encouragement would a far better path for any child.

…

The day had progressed to a lunch in a small exclusive restaurant with menus in French and with no prices. The ex-president had just turned up and did not need a reservation. There Boris had invited Alex along with the Director of the Ballet School, regaling them both with tales as a young political officer in the Army, as a factory manager in Siberia and then as a party official.

Alex escaped to ask Kolya for a drag on his cigarette. The stoic driver, bodyguard, friend and companion of the ex-President then confided. "It has been good to see Boris break his routine and get out for a while. Normally he just goes to the banya and the cemetery. His daughters only visit once a month. Both girls will be glad to know he left his rooms today. He has not enjoyed himself so much since Alexei's betrayal. He's genuinely worried about you. I honestly think you are not needing an old man to worry about you. He just wants you to understand that Alexei was not in his right mind in 2001. The man he knew and the man you knew were not the same. I think you both need closure."