Tulip Jones had lived alone far longer than she'd been married. Geriant no longer in touch, after they both promised to remain friends after they separated amicably. She knew he had remarried, she did not begrudge him being happy, normal. He returned to teach, as she strived to find justice after the deaths of her parents and twin sons. She had been transferred from undercover duties for the Special Branch at Scotland Yard to MI6 Special Operations after foiling a major IRA bombing campaign and earning a large price on her head. After 20 years away from the Met, no one wrote or called, she had no close friends at the Royal and General, just efficient working relationships. She had learned after the death of John Rider not to get attached to her coworkers.
Her building had 24 hour security in the lobby. It was late, just after midnight when she arrived back after another fraught day, Gerald the night guard handed her a handwritten envelope. "Hand delivered at five past six, just after I came on duty, by a polite young man. American. Blond, brown eyes, tanned, tall, around 6 foot, fit, around eighteen, well dressed, designer. He talked about travelling after school, said he was staying at the Dorchester. I asked for details for the visitors book, he filled it in, all right. Cheeky sod, in Russian of all things."
She read the name and address in beautiful calligraphy, 'Aleksandr son of the great spy Hunter, formerly of Apartment 324, the Kremlin, Moscow, Russia. Now travelling, going to California to visit school friends next Monday'. She opened the note, also written in neat Cyrillic, inviting her to lunch tomorrow at his hotel.
Refolding the note, she placed it in her handbag. "An invitation to lunch from the son of an old friend. A surprise, he was adopted four years ago with no contact since. I never expected to hear from him again." At least not cordially, she thought. In the morning she'd pull up the file from her colleagues at Albert Embankment to see what they had observed about Boris Kiriyenko's son, since Blunt burned Alex Rider from official records
...
Alex sat and watched Jamie try on his third outfit. "You look spectacular in those jeans, darling. Put the Tom Ford shirt back on. Keep it stylishly casual and in season. Relax, channel my empathy, both confronting our personal big bad wolves today. Your mother is small fry in comparison to Tulip Jones. It's a sucker bet to say mummy will probably bore you rigid with her me me me attitude. You can just sit back and let her hang herself, you have the upper hand in that you at least tried to be the adult."
The dark blue shirt was discarded and the cream one, last matched with his newly bought suit, was put back on as Alex stood up and started to hang up the items not being worn. He was a bit OCD about order, but Jamie kept him straight when he went a bit overboard. It was going to be a weird day all around. They would go over every detail together tonight over a pizza. Coming home, as being back in Britain, was home to Sasha as much as Moscow was. It was the stupid things that had satisfied a deep longing for things missing from his life. Jamie's Gran cooking bacon sarnies with HP sauce, toast and marmite and beans on toast awakened good memories from the dim and distant past. The real deal had been rediscovering takeaways. Fish and chips on the day out to Largs had been orgasmic, as had the lime pickle, poppadoms, lamb bhuna and garlic naan eaten in front of the telly as a Saturday night treat.
He had no links to places or ideals as Ian had ultimately failed to make him a patriot willing to sacrifice all for Queen and Country. It had been his uncle's hastily employed housekeeper, a lazy American with no culinary skills what so ever, who had instilled a love of all things quick and easy in the child she kept house for. After everything he was happy enough living anywhere, now as much Russian as part time English with an undercurrent of not really belonging as either, considering the legend of an American exile. Alex was well aware of his imposter syndrome, anchored by the nomadic early life, when his uncle had been intent on making him a linguistic natural by moving across Europe often. Up until secondary school, Alex had changed schools every one to two terms. Never making good friends, but developing the skills to fit in and also be comfortable as a loner. What had the Rider boys endured to grow up with their skill set as ideal spies?
In Russia, he had learned that the past was his to own and forging alliances was key to a successful future. His arsenal to use against MI6 was the damage they had wrought with their blackmail on the child-spy's psyche. Considering the reckless disregard for his own safety still in play after his actions in Italy. No regrets, but in hindsight he had made himself a target without a second thought for self preservation. He had talked things over with his papa, who rationalised that Dieter's security team had been at fault, not him. Alex was aware that the German financier would always put his son's security first and the best security had been the faults and skills of his son's boyfriend.
Jamie had taken a taxi to his favourite Vietnamese restaurant, to await his mother, who was famously unpunctual and forgetful. Sat at the table, he sipped a glass of ice cold water. Already aware that brutally blunt honesty and impeccable manners was the best policy with Mrs Jones. He wanted a home here again and the problem over a residency visa was all he was asking as recompense for her former boss' action of burning him to rely on the goodwill of others. Not that it mattered if she played hardball, the backup plan was to apply for a student visa and then settle in the States or Canada after graduation, if Jamie was no longer wanting a relationship. The future would not involve spying, considering Byrne had assured him there was little chance of passing any standard psychological assessment.
The dining room was beginning to fill up when Alex spotted the arrival of his guest. Her hair still brutally cut in a no nonsense Her clothes functional off the peg suit and blouse, in slightly dowdy style and colours, matched with a classic brown leather handbag. Standing to greet his guest, this was his chance to bury any animosity and ensure a blank slate. Spying was in the past, that career path derailed on the quayside in Murmansk. Sasha Kiriyenko was well versed in politics and the reality of the high stakes of international relations, considering the US and Russian governments had his back. There was no warmth in his smile, he was no prey or pawn. His cards were on show, with a couple of axes in easy reach if needed.
...
Tulip Jones appreciated the politeness and her lunch , the mask of civility. If she had been in Alex's shoes, Blunt would have been breathing his last. She sipped her glass of white wine, talking of the weather and his schooling. She was well aware this former operative has no intention of rejoining the Royal and General Bank's workforce. There had been no carrot used by her predecessor to gain the trust and loyalty of Ian's talented nephew. His shortsighted goal of taking down Sayle had set in motion the alienation of a child, she had been planned a hostile take over to rescue him, but the Russian's had nurtured him instead of imprisoning him as Blunt expected.
In soft Russian, Alex started to speak as their starters were served. "I read your file, the FSB one. Their analysts were genuinely surprised when you ousted Blunt. Called you ruthless and efficient, not to be crossed. From reading between the lines, your predecessor was not well liked, but I get that national security is not about popularity." His bite of endive salad was deliciously bitter, he chewed and swallowed every scrap, noting the bitch was observing him closely. "Don't worry I'm not an asset for Moscow. Byrne stated I'd fail any psychological assessment for them as well as the all important background check because of my adoption, not the fact Ian and John were both pathological liars. For the record, I know about SCORPIA and the CAD mole." The arrest and imprisonment of Sean Anthony Howell had been by closed military tribunal, held in a maximum security stockade far from civilisation. "The blowback from that must have been horrendous considering." The diner then placed his silverware silently to signal he had finished his starter. "Is your pate not to your liking? The salad was excellent."
She nibbled her melba toast smeared in duck parfait, Alex was in fine form, sharp as his father but chillingly cold. Using this lunch to drive home his status as untouchable. Playing a different game, with billionaires for friends and a sizeable trust fund from General Sarov to keep far from the grubby world which had cost him his name, his past and his biological family.
