A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!
The banya, or bathhouse, had stood unoccupied for at least a few years. A small sign affixed to the window suggested a temporary closing for renovations, but the lack of upkeep told a different story. The squat little door leading to the basement-level entrance had been kicked in the years past and no longer locked properly, sheltered from the immediate view of the street by a closed porch. On the outskirts of the city, the whole area gave the air of being derelict despite the many locals darting down the sidewalks and casting annoyed glances at the sky. Nobody lingered. It was a decent meeting place if one was looking to be unobserved. Yassen hardly stood out among the bundled pedestrians looking to escape the flurrying snow before it could begin in earnest.
He found himself a touch amused as he pushed open the door with a single gloved hand, pulling out the small RMS power detector he'd managed to source earlier this week. Bathhouses were notorious meeting places for clandestine business, given the relative ease of ensuring your conspirator wasn't wearing a wire. Cliche as it was, that didn't stop them from being effective locations in the field for weeding out traitors. It was a little ironic the gadget man had chosen an abandoned one, but from Alex's stories, he wondered if the odd engineer had meant it in some kind of homage.
Well, no radio, GSM, or wayward WiFi signals to speak of. Not in the fifty megahertz to ten gigahertz spectrum, anyway. Probably no audio bugs. That didn't rule out video surveillance, though.
Swapping the power and radio detector for an infrared detecting device that looked like a cross between a calculator and a cell phone, Yassen swept it carefully along the walls; given the poor light quality, it seemed like the obvious choice for any would be observers. The tiny building was silent and dark save for the small frosted strip windows near the ceiling, most of which were intact. Every surface was covered in varying amounts of dust. People had been through based on the number of cigarette butts and empty liquor bottles, but none of the tracks seemed fresh. Graffitied as they were, the empty wooden benches and tables dotted about the entrance area seemed to summon his memories of the tiny bathhouse in Estrov like ghosts at a seance. How the villagers would drink beer and chat as they hung clothing on pegs and tucked shoes into storage compartments before moving into the steam room beyond-
No. He couldn't let himself get so distracted.
His breath plumed in cold vapor in front of him, almost mimicking the steam that no longer gathered in the braziers to be expelled from the complicated piping system spanning into the ceiling above him. The stoves sat cold and useless, while along the walls hung dried and faded bushels of birch leaves for thrashing, long untouched and wreathed in spider silk.
The small screen failed to illuminate with any detected infrared radiation as he moved into the bathing room, where the large, near-empty pool of brown water and litter gaped at him from the floor. He nudged one of the reclining pool chairs with his toe. Baseboards were a relatively good place to conceal a hidden camera, though with the heaped trash they were perhaps too blocked to be of use. While Yassen's tech skills were nowhere near on par with the gadget master's, the shop he'd sourced his equipment from was reliable and everything they sold was intelligence grade. At most, Yassen was hoping for a head's up: if he picked up on so much as a hint that he was being recorded, he'd leave.
Information or no information, it was often better to be in the dark than dead.
Yet, no matter how carefully he swept the walls with his light nor searched the interior of the sauna stoves, he found nothing of concern. No devices. Nothing out of place. Not that he expected any. He pushed open the door to the entrance room, carefully forcing his face to maintain it's apathetic repose as he spotted the figure reclining on the bench closest to the serving counter.
"Good morning, Mr. Gregorovich," the former Agent Smithers said, consulting what seemed to be a small black datebook. The contract killer had no doubt it functioned more extensively than the one Dr. Wood had received and that the man was actively scanning both him and the surrounding area.
Yassen recognized his voice immediately. Even with Alex's gleefully gobsmacked recounting of the wiry man hiding under the high-tech fatsuit, the assassin still found himself startled. He'd rather gotten the image in his head of someone deep into their middle years, not arguably only a year or two older than himself. The man's brown hair stuck out from underneath his gray knit cap and he wore thin silver spectacles that made his bright eyes look a touch narrower than they were. His blue jacket was plain and his trousers simple- in all, he would stand out to the average passerby about as much as Yassen would.
"I take it you are satisfied I haven't bugged the place," Smithers said to him, glancing up from his datebook. He shut it with a snap. "I assure you, my dear fellow, I have no interest in recording this conversation or sharing your location with any former colleagues."
"Perhaps." Yassen approached much more slowly, stopping six feet away from the man. A comfortable distance for him: large enough to protect himself from any casual attack, but short enough that Yassen could cross it quickly to launch his own. He had no doubt that the man had a bullet proof set of clothing similar to Alex's, which meant that unless he got a perfect shot to the man's temple or forehead, his Beretta was useless.
Of course, Yassen was comfortable killing him any number of other ways. Only one had to work.
"Very well." Smithers stood carefully and walked over to the wall of compartment lockers where patrons once deposited their valuables. He yanked open one and set his datebook and a smartphone inside before stepping away, nodding. "Your turn."
Yassen raised an eyebrow. "I assure you I have no interest in recording you either."
"Perhaps."
Carefully striding forward, he deposited his phone into the next locker beside Smithers' and gently shut them both. He didn't bother adding his gun, which he suspected the gadget man was perfectly aware of. The other man was certainly concealing his own weapons, though Yassen didn't expect to notice them outright. Reading between the lines of Alex's stories, the man relied far more heavily on his tech than his physical prowess. "Satisfied?"
Smithers nodded sharply. "Quite. Now, what is it you needed to speak with me about? Your email was suitably vague."
Yassen shrugged. "I don't think my computer is compromised, but I didn't want to take the risk. All I require is your most damning evidence that MI6 blackmailed Alex into spy service."
"That's quite a tall order." Smithers raised an eyebrow. "Considering you've shown little interest in my case against MI6 before now."
"I have little faith in courtroom justice," Yassen told him. "The SVR simply needs the information to ensure MI6 finds neither the gumption nor the legal grounds to seriously attempt to extradite Alex. It is preventative, but I would also consider it inevitable."
Smithers canted his head to the side, lips pursed. "Because they already know he's in Russia or because your involvement in the SVR's Estrov gamble will eventually reveal you both should it move to trial?"
Yassen wasn't surprised that the man was so informed. He'd arranged the initial meeting with Abramoff and the CIA after all. "Both. What can you give me?"
"I have several hard drives worth of evidence. It will be a simple matter to pass on a suitable sample to Mr. Vankin," Smithers said, crossing his arms. "The real question is what can you give me?"
And here it was. There were a few things implied by Smithers agreeing to this meeting in the first place. Alex's welfare was easily the biggest factor, but Yassen doubted the man would have risked coming to Moscow directly if he didn't need something in return. Hopefully it wouldn't be complicated, since Yassen wasn't exactly confident in his ability to violently extract the information Vankin needed should Smithers' demands be too great. "What do you want?"
Smithers scowled, clearly biting the inside of his cheek. "When I met with Alex in Kingman, I asked if he would come with me to directly testify against Blunt and Jones. He said he'd rather stay with you and avoid the spotlight altogether, since as a minor, charges can be filed on his behalf. At the time, I was making steady progress, but I've run into a few snags. With these delays, I'm quite afraid he will be too old to avoid being directly involved by the time the wheels are properly in motion. It's best if he does so now, rather than risk having the case dismissed altogether, burning even more of his time while I appeal."
"Involved how?" Yassen demanded.
"He has to testify. He has to help initiate proceedings."
"Absolutely not," Yassen said immediately. "In any other country, MI6 will get their hands on him before you get so much as a hint of traction in court. He will quickly be out of both of our reach."
Smithers shook his head gently, studying Yassen. "You don't understand. Our needs are quite aligned. Your Russian friends are happy to stall on his behalf now, but how much international pressure are they willing to take before it's no longer worth it? I suppose they might be willing to relocate him within their own borders to complicate things legally, but that might require separating you two and uprooting his life here."
"So we silence MI6 quickly."
"Even if I provide the U.N. with definitive evidence that Alex was exploited, the SVR will be accused of fabricating it due to your presence here. If official charges are filed by representatives from several countries, however, with Alex officially backing them up on record, the accusations against MI6 suddenly have weight. The Russian government might have to get involved in some capacity, but it really only serves to strengthen their right to shelter Alex. They will have the moral high ground in the media while behind the scenes ensuring that they hold on to you. I doubt they will complain much."
Yassen's eyes narrowed. "Have you already approached Vankin with this?"
"No."
"Good. The answer is still no."
Smithers sighed. "I understand your reluctance. I'd rather Alex not have to-"
"I don't think you do." Yassen fixed him with a hard stare. "I don't think you've ever had to live through anything like what he has. I don't think you've had to put yourself back together after or take inventory of what bits of you are left. I don't think you've ever had to then detail those things for the scrutiny of a bunch of bureaucrats so that they can determine just how little your suffering is worth. I will not ask him for that. Alex's answer is already no. He will not testify."
Smithers considered his gloved hands. "I can see why Alex has grown so attached to you. You take his needs very seriously. Tell me, Mr. Gregorovich, exactly why are you going so far out of your way in the first place?"
Chert poberi. Yassen didn't bother concealing his ire.
He was never going to escape this question. It had been bad enough dealing with Alex on the cruise ship, but since he'd come to Russia, now everyone wanted to play the 'why' game with him. It was infuriating. There was no doubt in his mind that somehow, someday, someone would lean over his death bed just long enough to ask him why he'd risked everything for the little ex-spy.
He took the simplest route. "I owed his father a life debt."
"And you have repaid it several times over. Arguably, you paid it before either of you arrived in prison when you took a bullet to the chest while trying to negotiate with Cray's ego for his life." Smither gave him a steady look, lips pressed tightly together. "Why are you still with him?"
Yassen narrowed his eyes. "Does it matter? I'm doing what you cannot: keeping him alive and happy."
Smithers took in a sharp breath, but didn't take the bait. "I've got a theory, though I confess I may very well be wrong. Perhaps you can help me decide. Now, doesn't Alex look a lot like his father with his hair dyed as dark as it is?"
"Nostalgia? That's your answer?" Smithers was well informed, but obviously hadn't seen an image of Alex in the last 24 hours if he thought his hair was still dark. That little iPod must be as secure as advertised. "I don't care. You may call it whatever you like."
"Substitution is more accurate," Smithers snapped. "A replacement for the one person you ever-"
Yassen couldn't help it. He choked, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.
It did less to stifle the sound than he'd hoped.
Smithers stared at him, eyes darting over Yassen's features as the contract killer hunched over, unable to contain the laughter carving it's way out of his chest through his vocal chords. Wary concern was not an unfair response: it was a violent laugh, one Yassen felt more a victim to than a facilitator of. Surely he looked possessed. It certainly felt like it.
The gadget expert stood tensed, ready to flee, but Yassen didn't bother making any threatening gestures as he gasped, struggling to draw air into his lungs.
It took a few seconds to inhale properly.
"Oh, absolutely," Yassen ground out, before devolving into a stray snicker. He clenched his fists as though he could physically force back the involuntary mirth. It didn't work. "That must be it. Because if you dye his hair, Alex is basically Hunter, yes? Our relationship must be identical. I do so miss arguing with his father about how stupid his hair looked long or what insipid reality show he wanted to watch for hours or why he ccouldn't subsist solely on milkshakes for two straight months-" Yassen choked again, clamping his hand over his mouth. "Every time, I can't help but think of my unpleasable assassination instructor with a decorated military history. They're practically the same person."
Smithers shifted uneasily. "Fair. I suppose the significant difference I'm trying to address is-"
"Alex is just so odd," Yassen said. He should shut up, but he'd blown past some kind of mental limit without realizing it. It was almost akin to shellshock. Maybe he really was possessed. "I don't know what to do with him. He found a coyote on the side of the road outside of Kingman and I let him keep it because I didn't know what else to do."
"Gregorovich, I didn't mean to imply-" Smithers tried.
"He calls me Mum now," Yassen groaned, pressing his palms to his forehead. "All the time. I don't even question it. I answer to it."
Smithers didn't even try to respond to that.
Yassen very much needed to stop talking now. "I don't know what I'm doing. Christ, I'm asking Dr. Briar Wood for advice and I suspect her degree is written in crayon. I don't know shit about children, but here I am. If he acted anything like Hunter, it would be so much easier but they're nothing alike and I-"
Smithers held up a hand, wide eyed. "I believe you."
Yassen stopped short. "What?"
"Alex is not your Hunter replacement. I'd hoped not, but I had to be sure." Smithers waved a vague hand, with only a faint trace of apology. "No one ever thoroughly justifies their reasoning when they believe others to be in agreement, even when asked. However, most people rush to defend themselves and disproving an accusation demands more evidence. I didn't realize you were so, well-"
On the edge of a nervous breakdown? Yes, neither had he.
Yassen scowled, finally able to clamp down on the rising hysteria and shove it back down. Reminded himself that killing the man would run counter to his goals.
Well, most of his goals. Forgetting this encounter ever happened had abruptly leapt onto the list.
God, his capacity to be embarrassed really hadn't been eradicated from his psyche as much as he'd hoped. Like most befuddling things in his life at the moment, it appeared to be strictly Alex related.
Yassen promised himself a stiff drink when he got home.
"Think of it as brainstorming." Smithers reached into his internal coat pocket, tensing as Yassen moved his hand to the small of his back with obvious intent to draw, but only pulled out a white iPod with a matching set of headphones wrapped around it (Yassen was tempted to shoot anyway but the urge to slam his own head into a wall for rambling about his feelings was just as potent). Carefully telegraphing his movements to the assassin, he tossed it to him. Yassen caught it without effort. "For your conversations with Dr. Wood, though I will also be reachable. I'll look into your internet and computer security as best I can from afar, but for now, if the information can't be passed indirectly in an encrypted email, just call."
Yassen studied the man. "What makes you think you should trust me with it?"
Smithers shrugged. "I trust you to keep Alex alive and relatively happy. There's a wealth of evidence to suggest you have and will continue to do so, least of which are Alex's assertions that he accidentally gave you Stockholm Syndrome." The man's lips twitched. "Which I'm starting to believe."
That earned him an acidic look. "And what makes you think I trust you?"
"You don't, of course. I'm useful for now, but I doubt that's the same for you." Smithers waved a hand blithely. "And I've no doubt that should I cross you, I'll be quite dead quite soon. For what it's worth, I trust you to look after Alex and little else. Your iPod can contact me, but I've gone to great lengths to ensure it's signal can't be used to trace my location. I can't track yours either, unless we're on a direct call and even then it would be difficult. As much as I would like to protect myself from assassination, such a feature could lead back to Alex. It's not worth the risk."
While somewhat inclined to doubt that last part, Yassen found himself believing the man overall. The fact that he hadn't scooped Alex up despite needing him to testify implied Smithers' own safety was precarious.
Alex was still safest in Russia. Trifling with Yassen would only risk that.
"Has Alex shown you how to operate his?" Smithers asked.
Yassen nodded and spun his finger across the trackpad, tensed and prepared for the little device to detonate. It never did; essentially the same as the first one Alex had used in prison, without any surveillance interrupting features.
"Good. That's one of the spares I had made up for Alex a few missions back. I liberated a few of his gadgets when I left, of course. I do so love to spoil him with gifts every now and again. No extra features this time: if you want to use my tech to commit crime, Alex can be the judge of that. I also took the liberty of pre-loading this one with music that seemed more your style." Smither nodded to a locker several spots down from the one their phones were currently housed in. "Speaking of spoiling him, I brought another bullet proof shirt. It's best not to let him rely on his damaged one going forward."
Still somewhat aggravated, Yassen nodded. "How much can it take before losing effectiveness?"
"One, maybe two direct hits," Smithers sighed. "Knife damage is variable. Normally I would say that it's more than enough, but Alex seems to find himself in extenuating circumstances fairly regularly. Do ask him to slow down on how many of these he goes through if he can help it. I didn't manage to abscond with more than a ream of this material and I can't make more without a proper lab. The rest of his gadgets I can cobble together with commercial parts, but I'm quite limited when it comes to armor, I'm afraid. In fact, I have half a mind to have you send me his damaged shirt and see what I can salvage."
"You've had worse ideas today. Get me the details and I'll arrange it." Yassen crossed his arms, refusing to let Smithers have complete control of the conversation. He had his own lingering questions. "My turn. Why did I have to hide the blood transfusion?"
Smithers face tightened as he seemed to weigh his answer. "How much do you know about the interest in your blood?" he said eventually.
"At the time, only that there was any." Yassen studied him. "Now, I'm aware of the genetic smoking gun it makes in the case of Estrov. I assume the other countries wanted it only to sell it to the Russians at a premium. But you knew about all of that if you contacted Vankin alongside the CIA, yet you asked me to hide the transfusion. I was already with Alex, ready to give them whatever they wanted to get him treatment. Why would they care? He wasn't even born during the events I'm to testify to. Nothing from him would be admissible evidence. Why hide it?"
The gadget man hissed through his teeth. "That's… complicated to explain. Too much is uncertain for me to offer more than suspicions. The possibilities are really quite endless."
Yassen forced his hands to remain relaxed, when really all he wanted to do was coil with tension. Endless possibilities was not the answer he was hoping for. "Do you at least know if the issue is one of contagion?"
"Contagion?" Smithers blinked before his eyes narrowed. "That's an awfully specific word to choose. Why?"
The apartment was quiet and dark when Alex got back. Strange. It made sense when he actually paused to think about it. Yassen had been half working from the flat for the last week, only leaving Alex unattended for a few hours at a time, but otherwise glued to his phone and computer when he was present. Alex knew only that it was a "project" he'd declined to go into detail on; the teen decided he didn't really want to ask. His absence made a little more sense in that light. Eventually, Dima would at least want him to come into the office once in a while to make a show of translating things.
Setting his backpack on the bench by the door, he flicked on the living room lights and padded over to the kitchen to consider the contents of the fridge. Lunch had been only an hour ago, but he'd only picked at his pasta salad and found himself craving something sweet. Crusty takeout boxes stared back at him, promising crunchy rice and too wet breading that would not see any textural improvement from a quick spin in the microwave.
He groaned and glanced at the front door. Going out into the cold for a small snack was less than appealing. Maybe he could text Yassen to bring him something on his way back.
Of course, that was assuming he'd be back anytime soon or that he wouldn't be busy dealing with mafia problems because Alex had to go and get himself shot. Surely he'd be thrilled to have to cater to Alex while he laid about the apartment not doing anything.
His mildly good mood plummeted suddenly. He rubbed absently at his hip before grabbing the remote off the countertop and waving it at the telly. It sprang to life, filling the uncomfortably silent room with the sound of the local news station. Setting it down, Alex irritably swept a few wrappers and styrofoam cartons out of the way. The clutter was really building, though it was kind of inevitable. On the run, they'd generally only spend a day or two in a motel room at a time and even longer stays like the grand canyon still featured occasionally allowing room service to enter. Humans created grime the way plants created oxygen, though. Another week or two and this place would be downright unsanitary.
Alex tried to picture Yassen cleaning, wearing Jack's orange polka dot apron and matching gloves. Choked back a laugh. No, that wasn't going to happen. The assassin might have a tidy nature, but the former spy had never seen him scrub anything. Besides, Yassen was the type to outsource the stuff he didn't want to deal with and just hire a maid service. Actually, now that he thought about it, the man probably wouldn't want to do that either: giving anyone but them regular access to the apartment had been strictly forbidden in Yassen's lectures on maintaining "homebase" security. No unscheduled maintenance men. No school friends. Nothing.
Not that housework was particularly hard. Jack had made a point of giving him his own chores, if only to ensure he could survive the irregular weeks when she returned to Washington for family visits. She'd called it his 'eligible bachelor training' and had rewarded his successes with trips to the closest ice cream parlor. He certainly wasn't amazing at it, but once in a while he'd clean the fridge or something to make her life easier and earn himself some extra praise.
Alex bit his lip.
It was a small thing. Yassen might not even notice, or more accurately, think it important enough to bother with if he hadn't gotten around to it already. The man was a fastidious planner. Alex hesitated. Maybe it was a nice thing he could do to help, even if it didn't contribute much?
Alex grabbed his coat off the peg and checked his pockets, glancing up as he thought he spotted the weathered scales of a crocodile. His reptilian phantoms failed to make their presence known, so he went back to digging through his pockets. False alarm.
As per usual, Yassen had given him more than double the amount of money he'd need on any given day and since he never asked for his change, it tended to add up quickly. He had quite the collection of rubles growing, though after a moment, he detoured into their home office to grab a few more bills from the day-to-day stash Yassen had shown him (which was in a different spot than the "emergency relocation" fund and the mind-bogglingly overt "bribes" fund). The fully furnished flat had come equipped with a small closet vacuum, duster, and a broom in the small walk in pantry, but not much in the realm of actual cleaning supplies. He vaguely remembered a shop on an adjacent street that probably had what he needed.