A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!
Ben Daniels raised his eyebrows only ever so slightly as he scribbled his name on the dotted line, accepting the thick envelope with a friendly nod. There was nothing unusual about the delivery man himself- his name was Thad and he'd been the same worker to deliver packages since Ben had gotten his flat in London. Thad certainly didn't seem any different, no signs of stress, no sign of anything amiss as he took the clipboard back and hurried off to the next number.
It just was that Ben wasn't expecting any packages.
While most people would assume that some online impulse buy had gotten backordered and forgotten, Ben had never quite embraced shopping online the same way he had in stores. Combine that with the intelligence training he'd had drilled into him over the last year, including being aware of any and all items coming into his personal space, and this had 'suspicious' down to a T.
Please, please, please let this be something helpful.
A cursory examination of the package showed none of the telltale signs of a bomb or any kind of poison, not that he would necessarily spot the more sophisticated methods of assassinating someone through the mail. Protocol dictated that he should take any unexpected packages to the bank to be properly scanned and assessed, but Ben wasn't prepared to take that risk.
With a sharp inhale, he ripped off the perforated tab and pulled out the contents. No pricks of hidden needles, no dusting of unknown powder- instead, he pulled free a plastic wrapped leather day planner. A slip of paper had been included in the wrapping, with a boring professional letterhead apologizing for the backorder delay and including a promise for a modest discount on future products. Ben held his breath and flipped the book open. It looked like a normal planner, with paper sheets to detail the month and week's appointments and to-do lists, with a small pen attached to the side. When he flipped it open to the middle, he found center transparent sheets which were much weightier and supposedly for dry erase notes. Odd. He bit his lip, tracing one finger across the surface. There was no on-switch, no button or-
The screen abruptly illuminated, overlayed on the paper sheet behind him. His fingerprint must have activated it.
Ben took another breath, slower this time. This was some serious tech- far more sophisticated than the calculator he'd found at Brookland. Much harder to spot, he imagined. He might even be able to take this thing with him to work without it going detected… which was concerning in its implications.
Letters appeared across the device. Good afternoon, Agent Daniels. Please use the wrong end of the pen to write your messages on the screen.
Ben did as instructed, running his finger over the plastic tip on the opposite end of the pen. It may have even been a sort of soft rubber. Like this?
Very good. Now, there's something I must ask you. Just how far are you willing to go to help Alex?
Ben hesitated. I won't lie to you- I'll do a lot of things to help him, but I won't plant bombs in train stations or anything like that. If I'm going to commit treason, I need to know that it will actually help him. Wincing, he held the device away from his torso, preparing himself for the odds that Smithers would decide his answer was less than ideal and for the little device to explode into fireworks.
You're not a mindless foot soldier. I find that more than acceptable, old sport. Perhaps I should give you a bit more context before we go any further.
Ben blinked as a small pdf symbol appeared beneath the chat log so far. He tapped it gently with the pen and then his fingertip.
Official Notice of Accusation and Charges appeared across the screen, bearing the U.N. symbol with another set of headers indicating the International Court of Justice. Ben's chest seemed to lock up as his eyes raked across the document. For such a simple document (it only listed the charges and complainants with no promise of hearings or further action), it was quite long. Charge after charge of violating the Children's Act: abuse of a child, blackmail of a child, conscripting a child into military service- all bearing Alex's full legal name. It took about five minutes just to scan through all of the accusations, dates, and legalese.
He forced out a ragged breath, staring at the screen without really seeing it.
This was quite the sticky situation.
Yeah, Ben had been willing to go on with some treason in order to spirit the kid away or hide him somewhere safe, but this- this would be public. On the record. Getting involved here only increased the odds he'd be tossed in prison or have a sniper's sights tattooed permanently to his forehead by his current employer. One false step and he'd be exposed as a traitor, with very direct consequences to Alex and his case should he fail. But exactly what did Smithers want from him? If court proceedings were in motion already, that implied that evidence had already been compiled and submitted, at least enough to start a proper investigation.
Smithers gave him another few minutes to finish panicking. Are you in or are you out?
What do you need me to do? Ben replied. I don't understand how I can help with these court things. Do you want me to testify honestly if I am called? I won't lie for Jones.
That would be very helpful, but isn't strictly necessary. I have plenty of evidence that you encountered Alex regardless of what you say on the stand. A short pause before the letters appeared again on the screen. I know Jones is wary of you, but I need a man on the inside. Not for evidence necessarily, but someone who is enough in the loop to give me advance warning of any whispers in MI6. Alex is quite visible now, despite his actual location in Russia being obscured for his personal safety (don't even ask how many hoops I had to jump through to get that signed off on). I can't rule out the chance that MI6 will try to disappear him if they can, in the face of these charges.
I can do that. Ben chewed on the inside of his cheek. Do you think they will try to snatch him?
There won't be much publicity to these charges- not until court is actually in session. Naturally, the media shall find this very interesting down the road, but sensational accusations like this are brought with surprising frequency, though most fall through swiftly upon review, so they will not do more than flag it for a future story. It will be a few months before any reputable news agency begins tracking it publically. Until then, I would say Alex is at high risk of being disappeared.
What do you need me to do first?
Keep your ear to the ground. I will provide more instructions soon.
Ben watched the screen go blank. He shut the little planner shut with a shuddering breath. Stared at the wall of his flat for a good couple of minutes. "Well, fuck…." he breathed.
Yassen watched Alex stomp over the endcap on the aisle and glare at the small package of cakes on display. The boy studied the label- bright red shiny foil, featuring the same rolled chocolate cake that Alex had been munching on the day Yassen had come back to find a surprisingly clean apartment- but now instead of his enthusiastic offer of bites, the boy seemed torn between whether or not the treat seemed tantalizing enough to grab now.
He watched the boy debate over it for another ten seconds before losing his patience. "Just throw it in the cart, Alex," he said, tugging out his cellphone as it vibrated with another text. He flipped it open and checked it. "Isn't the point of grocery shopping to stock up?"
Alex shrugged and grabbed two packages, tossing them into the cart Yassen had grabbed when they'd first wandered into the upscale store. "You're right. I guess I'm just out of the habit of thinking about food I don't plan to eat in the next day or two."
"I'm sure you'll pick it up again," Yassen told him absently. "Dima will be here in a moment."
Alex paused, from where he was eyeing a package of crisps. "What? Why?"
Yassen was careful to let his body language betray zero concern or curiosity. Obviously, Dima wanted a word with him. If it were an emergency, he would have been summoned by Sergey, but the fact that Dima wasn't going to wait until Monday to see him at the office was somewhat telling. "He wants to discuss some business in person, apparently urgently enough to meet me here. Just keep shopping."
True to his expectations, Dima only took a mere minute or two to spot them among the aisles. While the store they were in was quite large by downtown Moscow standards, it could easily be crossed in its entirety within a scant three or four minutes. Yassen lacked such purpose at the moment and was happy to follow Alex as he meandered and double backed, letting his stomach be his guide, but Dima's purposeful stride caught up with them in only a minute or two.
"There you are," he said, clapping Yassen on the shoulder. Yassen watched as one of Dima's bodyguards took up a good twenty or so feet back, near the front of the store. In sight with a clear view of the main entrance area, but not close enough to hear what his boss was saying. Obviously this was to be a private conversation. "Sorry to intrude. Hopefully, I won't make your night too boring."
Alex shrugged and went back to glowering at the shelves.
Dima raised an eyebrow.
Yassen tucked his cell phone back into his pocket. "Don't mind him," he told his old friend in Russian. "He's sulking because he had to attend therapy today."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be. When he sulks, he eats."
Dima turned his skeptical gaze to the cart, which was about half full with sweets and other junk foods. Yassen hadn't gotten around to throwing any sort of nutritious staples like the doctor had suggested, but there was still time. "Not well, I see."
"Whatever it takes to get him to gain weight," Yassen said. "I'm past complaining."
Dima snorted, watching Alex as he darted back down the aisle to examine a series of chocolate bars. "Well, this is one way to go about it."
Yassen gave him a side glance. "What did you wish to speak with me about off the record? I assume that's why we aren't chatting on the phone or discussing this at the office."
Dima gave him a wry look. "You are never surprised by me, it seems. I'm beginning to think this is a good thing."
Yassen stayed silent.
"You're right, of course," Dima went on. "I have something I need done. Discreetly."
"That's what your father-in-law has employed me for," Yassen said blandly.
"This is for me." Dima's lips tightened. The motion was a touch uneven, a subtle reminder of the plastic surgery that had returned him to classic attractiveness. "I need you to install surveillance in a lawyer's office, off the record."
"Whose lawyer?" Yassen asked him, his fingers twitching in want of a cigarette. This sounded like it was only going to grow in complexity.
"My wife's. They are planning something and I must know what it is." Dima sighed. "This needs to stay out of Sergey's notice. I will pay for whatever Scorpia's expenses are out of my own pocket, just pick an operative that can get it done."
Yassen followed Alex across the aisle, watching Dima's bodyguard keep pace at the exact same distance. "I cannot source this job through Scorpia, Dima. It's in the contract that all expenses must be noted by their accountants, then approved by Sergey as the main contract holder, in order to prevent this exact sort of thing. Scorpia doesn't necessarily disapprove of in-fighting or treachery, of course, but whoever signs the checks gets the biggest advantage."
"Then hire someone from another agency," Dima insisted. He folded his arms, eyes tightening. "This matter is urgent. Your contract says you can employ anyone you like. It doesn't exclusively have to be Scorpia-"
"It does, actually. Unless I end the entire contract, everything I enact on behalf of Sergey must go through Scorpia. They are not amateurs. You are not the first to make a request like this. Everything I order, source, or communicate is overseen by Shackall anyway. He has little reason to protect me if I threaten the contract with errant behavior."
Dima's face tightened further. Yassen could almost feel him withdraw from him. "I see. You cannot get this done for me."
Yassen turned to him, giving him a long, steady look. "I'm not saying that at all. I am saying Scorpia's assets cannot do it without Sergey's approval. I will simply have to do the job myself."
Dima studied him. "You can do this?"
Yassen pursed his lips. Surely whatever file Scorpia had used to initially advertise Yassen's services hadn't downplayed his prowess in the field? With his luck, they'd omitted it entirely. "I'm hardly out of practice, Dima. I didn't go into project management to retreat behind a desk. Staying out in the field is the only reliable way to keep your skills sharp. Tell me what kind of surveillance you need."
"Audio and visual, though just audio will do if needs must." Dima was still considering him. "How do you want me to transfer you payment? I assume a private transaction would keep Scorpia out of-"
"There's no need," Yassen told him, spotting a handful of freeze dried ramen meals and tossing a half dozen into the cart. They bounced off the piles of snack cakes with a crackle. Surely these were along the lines of what Dr. Werner had suggested. At the very least, they could languish in the pantry until the end of time. "I will do it as a favor."
"For an old friend, soldatik?" Dima's lips quirked, though Yassen could tell that Dima was not entirely at ease. "I don't mean any insult, but something tells me you are a complicated man to owe a favor."
Yassen gave him a wry look. "You aren't wrong. If you want to pay me back, you shall have to explain to me these problems you have with Sergey and your wife. We both know this mess extends from the personal realm to the professional. I've dealt with a wide range of internal issues before and it's fine, just don't let me be surprised by which ones I encounter." He flicked a glance at Alex, who had spotted a display of Oreos and was busy deciding how many chocolate-flavored-lard-and-sugar-bombs he needed in his life at the moment. "After all, I have skin in this game too."
Dima inclined his head. "Agreed. When can you have this thing done?"
"Give me the name and address of the lawyer. I need to evaluate his current security before I give any estimates. We must only speak of this in person."
"Done." Dima kept pace with him for a long moment.
Yassen maintained the mutual silence, broken only by the background noise of the store; cart wheels squeaking against linoleum, the low chatter of other shoppers, the steady beeps of the tills near the front. Classical music played faintly from the speakers interspersed throughout the store. Alex perked up, spotting the frozen foods section and darting forward. Yassen tried not to sigh and resigned himself to talking the boy down to only three flavors of ice cream. Maybe he could sneak in more protein shakes.
When he glanced back at Dima, he noticed the man was staring at the shelves with a somewhat blank expression, jaw set to the side. Yassen quickly followed his gaze to the gleaming rows of bottles of cooking oils lining the aisle in front of them, followed quickly by a small display of exotic breads in which to swirl them. He glanced back at Dima, catching his eye.
"Do you ever just stare at it?" Dima asked him, eyes faraway. For a second, Yassen could clearly see the scrawny teenager standing beneath the dim light of a streetlamp on a derelict Tverskaya street corner, drowning in his oversized leather jacket with it's arms rolled up. "I can barely remember what things were like some days. Others, I can't believe today is so different. Like I'm supposed to still be there and I've wound up here by mistake. As though my rich life today is a dream and I'm finally waking up."
"Sometimes," Yassen admitted. He glanced again at the gleaming surfaces in front of him, at the warm light spilling out from the trendy light fixtures above onto the exotic, expensive foods arranged artfully on artesanal displays around them. "Once in a while, when I walk into a place like this. I will not be thinking of anything in particular, but when I go to leave I will make eye contact with a security guard and the old nerves return. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Like I have come to steal and they know just by looking at me and will throw me out. I have already paid and collected my bag, but in that moment, it doesn't matter. I am fourteen again and I must be ready to run."
Dima nodded slowly. "I once bought an entire crate of that French caviar- that kind we stole from that young couple in that underground parking lot, do you remember?- just to prove to myself that I could. That I'm good enough now for as much as I want. I ate so much in one night, I vomited. I lied and told Katya I was drunk."
Yassen blinked. "On my first night in a five-star hotel, I had to talk myself out of sleeping on the floor. It took everything I had not to try to clean before I left. To apologize for being there, even though I had enjoyed it too." He hesitated. "Have you seen the old flat?"
"The Marriott? I rented the same room. Counted the windows to be certain it was the right spot. It didn't matter; they only saved the stone facade and even that got updated. Nothing was the same." Dima dragged in a slow breath and turned to study Yassen. "I try to explain it to my children sometimes, but they don't understand at all. It makes me angry some days. As though I'm going mad."
"It's good that they don't," Yassen said, eyes drawn to the dark blonde head bobbing between freezer doors as he compared cartons, his annoying little topknot bouncing with the motion.
Dima followed his gaze and nodded. "They have their own burdens. It's better to be careful what we tell them."
"I try not to tell him any of it," Yassen confessed. "Even when he asks."
"Because he won't understand?"
The faint tinge of something creeping into his voice made him cringe. "Because I'm afraid that he will."
Dima clapped him on the shoulder, dragging in a deep inhale that seemed to rattle in his chest cavity. "I am glad I found you again, soldatik. It is easier to make sense of this strange world when you have company. You know, they've done studies..."
