The CIA liaison at Moscow Embassy had said nothing at the time about his suspicion Alex Gardiner was a legend somehow linked back to the Covert Ops division, official title of the deputy director of interagency cooperation, because they took the dirty work across all federal agencies domestic and abroad. In June, Byrne had been chasing down a couple of kilos of high grade fissile material misplaced during decommissioning of Ukrainian intercontinental ballistic missives. His guess was on the button because right after the kids passport turned up in Moscow, the deputy director of interagency bullshit himself went undercover. Byrne was Langley's version of Teflon, a master of misdirection, wet work and the real dirt that everyone attached to subcommittees and federal funding denied ever happened on their watch and most dismissed him as a bean counter. A kid was involved. Rumours were that Blunt had used a highly trained kid in Iraq in May. Was it the same one? He'd seen both of Boris's kids last night at the Bolshoi. The undernourished blond boy looked like puberty had yet to strike was not fourteen until next summer, way to young. No wonder the Guardian journalist was trying to pin the tail on this donkey with the ruse of a mere interview of the retired President. Yet there was no request from Langley for a contact report or any higher level surveillance. The journalist had form digging up dirt as Pleasure's book on Cray was a number 1 bestseller detailing years of murder and megalomania left unchecked.
...
Edward had travelled to Moscow alone. Liz and Sabina planning a girl's weekend Christmas shopping despite the offer of a city break. This interview would pay the bills for a few months as an exclusive for Vanity Fair, as agreed with the Kremlin Press Office. His other investigation had ground to a halt, he had uncovered the serial failing of Ian Rider as a guardian, but his discussions off the record with Detective Inspector Manningham formerly the lead on Operation Yewtree and recently seconded to Interpol, had confirmed high level interference typical of national security overrides direct from spook central at Albert Embankment. His contact in the SAS had linked Alex to Special Forces training, the late Herod Sayle, Sir David Friend and a school in France involved in murder, extortion and kidnapping allegations and a very specialised infiltration job in Iraq. No proof of sexual exploitation, but suspicion of something far more nefarious, something government sanctioned as his uncles whole career had little to do with finance and was probably linked to unexplained thefts, deaths and disappearances during his time abroad. By accident rather than design he had stumbled across the blackest of intelligence operations masked behind the cover of a bank and a child trained by a sociopath to be a future spy. He was fashioning the tale into his details of own investigation of a shadow world.
The reluctant interviewer had booked into his hotel, walked across Red Square and presented himself at the visitor's entrance and a lanky dark haired teenager was waiting for him, "hello, is it Sasha or Dimitry?"
"Please call me Dima, Mr Pleasure. Our father is resting up at home with a cold today. Sasha is fussing over him. I have your press pass, come tea is waiting. English tea, my brother has insisted on baking Cornish scones and using china cups." The teen smiled broadly, "A Wedgwood teaset given to Tsarina Maria Federovna from your Queen Victoria."
The dark haired teen opened the apartment door then turned to leave, "I have another engagement with a young lady. Papa is in the sitting room ahead, just go in he's expecting you."
...
Three weeks before Christmas, there was no sign of any western influences in the apartment. No tree, no decorations even though it was advent for the Orthodox Church. He knew Russians really celebrated New Year and he doubted Boris, as an ex-Politburo member, was religious. The room was surprisingly cosy. Boris Kiriyenko was slimmer and healthier looking despite his cold than he had looked on his last public appearance before his illness. "Thank you for inviting me into your home, your Excellency."
In the kitchen a teenager laid out a tray, nervous and excited at the same time. Boris was all for full transparency and Alex keeping ties with his past. This was exile, but for his protection. The trade off had been his identity. He was still Alex Rider. He had nothing to hide. Healing meant regaining ownership of his own past. The tea bartered by Jean-Pierre from his counterpart at the British Embassy. He had learned the simplicity of baking. The first step to be a patisseriere. The chef had already complimented Alex on his patience and drive to perfect the basics, not wanting to be perfect straight away. Scones, then cake, then pastry and meringue. Alex almost laughed out loud. Here he was procrastinating about his plans of baking things he did not like to eat. Things Jean-Pierre assumed all children liked, Alex was trying to like them and failing. He liked eating Boris' pickles more. Tea today was an idyll of Englishness to placate his papa's endless worrying about his emotional well being. Dimitry understood that his new brother was hopelessly weird and completely unique.
Edward spoke enough Russian to order a drink and a meal. Grammar, tenses and interrogation was beyond him. He was waiting for the man's son to arrive and translate. There was the slim possibility that Boris was faking his complete ignorance of English and a more likely scenario that the man understood everything, but watching the journalist make a fool of himself was just that man's idea of fun.
A thin and cheerful blond boy arrived whistling a folk tune mostly hidden behind a heavily laden tray he was carrying. Placing his burden on the side table, he poured out the tea and plated up scones, already made up with cream and jam. He dutifully served his father first then Edward frowned as the tea handed to him had a touch of milk, just the way he liked it. Sasha then piped up in a familiar London accent "How are you, Edward? I sent a message to Sabina asking after you all. I hope she got it."
The journalist almost dropped his teacup, the disaster saved by Alex anticipating his shock. "I'm fine, Alex...er...Sasha. Almost as good as new. This is going to be one hell of a story. Will I be able to print any of it?"
...
The photographer arrived before dawn on Monday from LA after a stopover in London yesterday evening. The whole city a mix of white snow and grey slush. The travel guides stated Moscow was always more picturesque in winter. It looked like any other grey, drab and icy cold mix of ugly intermixed with a sparsity of genuine architectural delights. He sourly looked out of the window, hoping to get this gig over a done with this afternoon, when he saw his first glimpse of the Kremlin and the onion domes of the Cathedral which did look beautiful. He arrived at his hotel, thankful he could sleep until 10, as his late breakfast had already arranged after the hell of travelling half way across the globe.
The family group plus the award winning Edward Pleasure met him for lunch at the Pushkin Cafe. Two boys, not one, accompanied the elder statesman. The boys going ice skating at Gorky Park as a bribe to be good. He was stumped, there was no translator, no make up artist nor a stylist. Edward just sat back as the father and sons chatted happily in their native tongue. He got the distinct impression he was missing something, but from the body language he was definitely not the target of this in joke. The journalist was sat there sipping vodka like he was a close friend, not the man who had a reputation digging up decades old secrets.
"Thanks for the draft of your interview." The freelance photographer's interest was peeked as this was not the short straw he took it for. There must have been something spectacular from the old man, or more about the kid than the article disclosed. It mentioned the fail by the embassy here, but that was it, a mention. The whole piece was positive and upbeat about the family and brutally honest about the fact both kids were psychologically damaged by their ordeals in the system. The former president had a heart of gold beneath the caricature exterior. "Not your usual in depth piece, are you sitting on a bigger story?"
Edward shrugged "Truth is relative to your perspective. Let's go outside for a smoke."
The photographer lit up and offered a Marlboro Light to the fellow smoker, but Edward declined. "I quit in 1986, though I have been damn tempted to start again since July. So, off the record and I trust your complete digression. Sasha has been adopted by His Excellency. Who is not his biological father. Protected here thanks to the will of Boris' late best friend. Who was also not Sasha's biological father, but the late general's will stated the boy was the son of his heart not his body. This shit storm involves the Russians, the Cubans duped by two western spy agencies involved in illegal trafficking of a minor across several borders. It's a scoop, but I'm sitting on it until Sasha gives me the OK. Which means waiting until he's 18."