Warnings: suicide attempt (no character death), prostitution
Rated: T
Summary: Russia is not a kind place for teenage spies - but at least Yassen is here.
Disclaimer: All rights to Alex Rider's world go to Anthony Horowitz. Any and all recognizable works do not belong to me. Any ideas, quotes, references, etc. are credited to their rightful owners.
—1—
Timeline: Between Games of Chance and Companionship
The harshest places are sometimes the most beautiful. Danger and beauty are often closer than we think. What could compare to the depths of the ocean? The endless wonder of space? Yet either could snuff out a light as easily as a candle in the breeze.
What could compare with the whistling winds of a snowstorm, blanketing the world in white? As far as the eye can see. Turning everything perfectly uniform. Yet each snowflake different, unique, beautiful, but cold to the touch. Capable of monstrous deeds, of frostbite and hypothermia. Capable of taking your life, one crystalline particle at a time.
The beauty is, in fact, what makes it so dangerous. Because no matter how cutting the edge, you can't help but come a little closer. Closer and closer until you are looking at this microscopic miracle under the lense.
And you get so caught up in the beauty, you don't even notice as thousands of others blow in, surround you, bury you in ice.
Russia was cold and unforgiving. All stone and ice - the terrain, the building, the people. Maybe Alex would have thought differently if he was here under better circumstances. As it is, standing freezing in ripped rags on a tourist-crowded street, Russia has never looked bleaker.
Someone bumps into him roughly, barreling past with nay an apology, like he is invisible. He steps back, fading away against the wall. The drab colours he is dressed in acting like camouflage to his monotonous surroundings. Wrapping his ragged brown coat closer to himself, clawing at the rough fabric to keep in some warmth. He tugs the cowl of his hood lower.
A band of tourists shuffle past, not even acknowledging the dirty blond boy huddled against the wall. He is just one of many. As much a part of the city as the brick walls and cracked cobblestones. When they turn the corner, Alex looks down at his hands.
Two wallets and a bracelet. He is getting better at this. Practice, of course, makes perfect.
He opens one of the wallets to find a couple hundred Russian ruble's along with an American twenty. The other wallet was slightly less exciting; some shiny coins, Kasimov's, Pskov's and Murmon's. There is a credit card that he is sure will be cancelled before he gets the chance to use it. Otherwise, empty.
As for the bracelet… he might be able to pawn it if he was so inclined, but it didn't look expensive enough to be worth his time. He drops it on the ground in a small snowbank with the now empty wallets. Maybe someone else will find the trinket worth the hassle.
Continuing down the bustling street, his eyes scan for his next target. The crowds swarm together in intricate patterns, other potential pickpockets weaving among them. It was important that Alex didn't interfere with any of their marks - he is trying to lead a low profile, and that means not angering the local gangs.
A man enters his crosshairs. Tall, fair-haired, well muscled. Not decked in glamour, but clearly well off. An expensive, spotless black coat and a dark blue scarf. Fingerless gloves. Dark jeans tucked into army boots (similar to the ones Alex himself wore, but clearly newer and without the trauma that the streets have inflicted on his own.) The man was confident, which is what initially drew Alex's attention.
He was a challenge - just the type that Alex loved chasing. Just the man he had been looking for. Alex couldn't believe his luck.
His eyes scan the surrounding area. The man is alone. A solitary figure in a sea of huddled groups. Like a shark amidst several schools of fish.
He situates his hood, easily blending into the crowd, taking a winding path in the direction of his new target.
A few steps away from the man, Alex straightens, tilting his head up high. He lets his hood fall away from his face. This time, instead of making himself invisible, he makes himself as prominent as possible. People part from his path like he is Moses.
The man locks eyes with him just as Alex enters his personal bubble, probably sensing that this intruder of his space is not of innocent intent, as most of the crowd is. The man doesn't draw a weapon - most likely, he is expecting to be faced with a lowly pickpocket. Not that Alex isn't a thief, he just isn't only a thief.
Alex watches, up close and personal, privy to a front-row seat, as the shock enters those ice-blue eyes. Open a little wider, pupils dilating ever so slightly. There is a certain satisfaction to seeing surprise overtake the usual unchangeable blankness - like spray painting a crumbling blank wall into a work of art: out of place, but still a nice change. The slightest twitch of a hand towards a concealed weapon on instinct.
Then he is slamming into him, Alex's hand darts out fast as a speeding bullet. He stumbles away quickly, stepping into a side alley before breaking into a run. He needn't bother with subtlety - the man has already seen him, and anyone else on the street doesn't care. This isn't exactly a rare occurrence - a smartly dressed man chasing a street rat, yelling thief. His feet pound on the icy pavement as Alex desperately tries to keep his footing.
The gun he has just pickpocketed is jammed into the waistband of his torn jeans. The metal is as cold as ice.
His path crosses with a dozing (or possibly drunk) beggar in the alley, then he bursts through to the other side. Another group of pickpockets - with whom Alex is well acquainted - are huddled together for warmth. The buildings, too, are low and concentrated, as if seeking company like the people in the streets below. He turns the other way and-
-is slammed into with such a force he falls on his arse on the frost slick ground. Ouch. That's going to bruise.
He looks up: fair hair, blue eyes, stoney expression returned - no trace of the surprise that Alex had coaxed into them just moments before.
"Alexander…" Yassen says, Russian accent natural and native sounding, barely even out of breath. Alex wonders if this is the accent the man grew up with, or if his natural dialect had been slightly different. He can't tell either way. "My gun back, please."
He speaks Russian fluently, which Alex takes just a second longer to translate. Yassen holds out his hand expectantly for the misappropriated object. Alex smiles - a little more cheekily than is probably smart - and takes the outstretched hand to pull himself up. The man allows him to pull himself to his feet, looking exasperated.
Alex dusts the powdered snow off himself. He makes no move to hand the gun back.
"How did you find me so fast?" Alex asks. The man clearly hadn't followed him down the alley - he must have taken a different backway. Cut him off.
"I grew up on these streets," Yassen answers, blue eyes flickering around, reminiscing perhaps? Most likely not. "I know my way around."
Alex nodded, then wraps his arms around himself as a brisk wind blows through the narrow streets, cutting through his thin clothes. The group of street kids huddle closer together.
Yassen frowns, looking like he is biting at the inside of his cheek (a habit Alex is also often guilty of.) He reaches out and pulls Alex by the upper arm. A gentle but firm tug. "Let's go inside."
"I don't think any place is going to let me in," he gestures at his grimy street clothes. The same jeans, shirt, jacket, socks and shoes that he has been wearing for nearly a week now.
Yassen just nudges him forward, insistently leading him by the arm down the twisted back alleys. More beggars, more pickpockets. At some point - when Yassen is sure Alex would not bolt - the hand releases him. Drifts down to his waistband and retrieves the stolen gun. Alex lets him.
He didn't know what had possessed him to take the gun in the first place, anyway. He didn't need it, necessarily, though it might be handy to have. Anyway, he had just seen Yassen - a dead man that he hadn't had face to face contact with in over a year - and had decided to act. Blame temporary insanity.
Alex hadn't been sure how he would react to seeing Yassen again. Would he want to speak to him, or would he be content to just see the man from afar? Then he had seen Yassen, and something had come over him. Natural curiosity? The innate need for a challenge? An instinctive habit he had developed for chasing - or being chased by - danger? Something along those lines.
That same something that is pushing Alex to follow the deadly man now. Deadly to everyone but him. The same something that had pushed Alex to search for the man that is now next to him. Mission accomplished.
Right up to a dingy hotel squatting lowly off the beaten track, snowbanks piled against the sides like the ground is trying to swallow it. Through the creaking backdoor, up a small, rickety service staircase, into a dimly lit corridor. The door facing them is dark wood with a dented brass knob and a matching ornate knocker. Yassen produces an old fashioned key and inserts it into the lock. Old as it is, it requires some coaxing before the lock is willing to turn.
Another door swung open down the hall, and a bedraggled man steps out. Clearly not a tenant. Alex suspects the man is on the receiving end of a shady drug deal. Yassen pulls him into the shadowy room before he can see any more.
"So, Alexander," Yassen closes the door snuggly behind them, "What brings you pickpocketing guns on the streets of Moscow?"
Alex shrugs, passing Yassen and wandering around the room. Under the assassins watchful (slightly approving?) eye, he examines the room. Scrutinizing the curtains, the window sill. Running his hands over the twin bed - clearly unslept in. Glancing into the adjoining bathroom, and tugging the door fully shut.
Yassen even allows him to cast a critical eye over the single duffle bag at the foot of the bed, probing it with a stiff finger; Alex notices thin metal hairs protruding slightly from the zippers.
"Satisfied? The room isn't bugged."
Alex smiles, biting at his bottom lip and taking a seat on the bed uninvited. He swings his feet back and forth, childishly. "Can never be too careful."
Yassen nods, conceding the point. "So… what are you doing here, Alex?"
Alex pats the bed next to him, waiting pointedly for the assassin to sit. Yassen's eyes roll, but the man joins him without further complaint.
The bed creaks as Alex turns, examining the man up close. Yassen looks a lot softer from this distance (Alex would never say that out loud.) The chiselled edges seem less harsh, the blue eyes seem lighter - resembling a clear sky rather than freezing ice. Alex could see the beginning of stubble, as if the assassin had neglected to shave that morning. Small nicks and scars, invisible from a distance, are slightly more obvious up close; they make the assassin seem a little more human. Yassen watches him as well, sizing him up.
"I was on a mission. It ended rather abruptly, so MI6 told me to lay low until it is safe to get me out of the country."
"And when will that be?"
Alex shrugs. "Don't know. Soon, hopefully."
"What was the mission?"
"What makes you think I would tell you?"
"Because," Yassen's hand clamps down on Alex's knee, effectively drawing his direct attention, "back in the street, you saw me first. You could have disappeared and I would have been none the wiser. You engaged me. And after all this time, I think you trust me."
Alex turns his head down. Yes, he does trust Yassen. He isn't entirely sure why, but it's true. He had trusted Yassen (irrationally) since they had first met. He hadn't necessarily trusted the man not to hurt him, the lives they lived hadn't allowed for that, but he did always trust Yassen to be straight with him. To be honest and fair and always give him a fighting chance. Yassen had never lied to him - in the world of espionage, that was more than Alex could ask for.
This isn't the first time Alex has sought Yassen out when he could have turned tail and ran for the hills. In fact, he has spent quite a lot of his time after returning to England trying to get in contact.
The last time he had seen the man, he was bleeding out on the presidential plane, Air Force One. However, the last time they had spoken was a little more… recent. A little more than two weeks ago, in fact. Just before Alex had shipped out for this mission.
A little over six months ago, Alex had stumbled upon a continuity error in some paperwork. He had secretly been looking up his past missions - after the surprise of Julius Grief's prison escape, Alex wanted to be sure that all his enemies were right where he left him.
He had thought he had left Yassen Gregorovitch in a body bag. Evidence said otherwise.
He spent weeks afterwards trying to track the assassin down. Not out of any desire to seek revenge on the man (for sending him to Scorpia, killing his uncle and all), nor to bring him to justice with MI6 (he hardly trusted MI6 with information about Yassen after they lied to him), but out of a kind of natural-born curiosity. He wanted to speak with him. He wanted an explanation. Why had Yassen sent him to Scorpia? Was he aware of John's double agent status? Why did Yassen think it was alright to kill John's brother but not his son? Alex wanted to understand.
He knew he should probably hate the man. Yassen had been at least partially to blame for him being inducted into MI6, mostly to blame for him getting caught up in Scorpia, and absolutely to blame for him losing his last living relative. (Never mind that if Yassen hadn't killed Ian, someone else likely would have.) If anything, he should at least be scared of Yassen. A murder that had kidnapped him on more than one occasion, threatened him, and who's only argument for not killing him was that kids were off-limits. And what does that even mean? Once Alex could drink and vote he could also be shot in the head? His execution hinged on a few meaningless years of high school?
Alex can hardly be considered a kid anymore, and chances were high that whatever debt Yassen felt he owed John Rider had been paid when the assassin took a bullet to the chest.
The fact was, he didn't hate Yassen. He wasn't scared. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't muster any negative emotions towards the man - not to the extent that they once existed. Certainly not to the point that he wanted to kill the man.
He just wanted to talk. Maybe even see him again. Yassen, he knew, wanted something similar. At least, that's the impression he gave Alex.
MI6, however, did not want that. They in no way wanted him to get in contact with the man - this was clear in the fact that '6 had neglected to make him aware of Yassen's continued existence above ground. Sadly, Alex wasn't very good at doing what other people wanted.
Eventually, he got in contact with Yassen through one of their… shared clients. As in, someone Alex had spied on and Yassen had killed for. Alex broke into the man's house, downloading the contacts off a cell phone while he was sleeping. (Who keeps an assassin's number in their phone anyway? Speed dial number five? That's messed up. The lawyer was number six.)
The number was completely untraceable, but Alex didn't need to trace him. Instead, he sent a text.
Glad to hear you're alive.
A response hadn't come for several days. When it did, it was just a single word.
Likewise.
He and Yassen continued to correspond over the secure number. One month after the first message, a cell phone had appeared in his house, one number programed in. His own phone was secure - even from MI6 - but Yassen had wanted to be positive. Alex couldn't blame him for wanting to stay under the radar - world's most wanted and all.
After the burner had arrived, they were able to speak. Yassen had been the first to call. Despite this new found liberty to talk, they were still careful. Never said their full names - or anyone else's - never said where they were. Ian was 'my uncle', Jack was 'my housekeeper', Tom was 'my friend', MI6 was 'my agency', and Scorpia was 'your organization'.
This way, anyone listening in wouldn't understand much of what was being said. They wouldn't be able to be traced. Occasionally an 'Alex' or 'Yassen' slipped out, but those at least weren't damning information.
Over time, they grew more comfortable speaking with each other. Alex would even say they had gotten close - would go as far as to say Yassen was one of the only friends he had on this side of things. He figured Yassen felt the same - they had always had a kind of irrational bond between them. One that led them to be a little more comfortable than was probably safe. Eventually, Yassen slipped.
Just a little thing. When they spoke, Yassen always used an accentless voice in plain English. But a month ago, maybe Yassen was tired, not thinking straight, but when the man answered it was in German. Luckily, Alex spoke German fluently, and he had replied the same. After a three minute conversation, they parted ways.
Alex immediately Googled current events in Germany (it was a long shot - lots of places spoke German - but Alex was feeling lucky), and stumbled across an interesting article. An apparent accident. A limousine blew a tire when taking a sharp curve and plunged off a bridge, killing a visiting politician from a foreign country - the same country that the current mayor had lived in and fled from. Alex made the educated guess that Yassen was behind this. A well-aimed bullet to the back tire was all it would require.
Afterwards, he continued to keep tabs on the assassin's whereabouts. Keeping track of a top-tier assassin was not easy - if it was, Yassen wouldn't have made it this long. But Alex had connections, and while Yassen himself was hard to follow, his kills were a little easier. He might not know where Yassen was, but he could figure out where he had been. Yassen was world-class, after all. Perfectly executed, high profile hits tended to come up on the radar of agencies like MI6.
Little hints over the phone allowed Alex to get a kind of picture of Yassen's travelling pattern - which was of course perfectly random, even to a trained eye.
Then, early last week he had got wind of a high profile assassination just outside Moscow. That is the reason he took this mission, if he was being honest. He had tracked Yassen to Russia, knew that the man had a house in Moscow, and thought that they might cross paths.
It had seemed like a long shot, running into the man by chance, but Alex was relying on their past history of doing just that. It had worked.
Now he is here, stalling while he tries to figure out how to explain to this man that he had been sent to infiltrate a child prostitution ring. Maybe he and Yassen weren't exactly friends, but they have some kind of connection. Yassen had developed something of a protective streak when it came to Alex's missions, and he certainly won't be happy about this latest one.
"I was undercover," he finally answers.
Yassen's lips turn down at the corners, recognizing the deflection for what it was. "I gathered as much. Doing what?"
Alex considers lying, but knows he would never get away with it. Yassen is a master of deception.
"I was… infiltrating the youth working class?" He tries his best to make it sound not as bad, but knows that Yassen will see right through him.
"Prostitution?"
Alex nods - not quite shamefully, but close enough.
"So, you whore yourself out for MI6 now?" Yassen asks, not pulling any punches.
Alex flinches at the crass words. "No!" He answers automatically.
Yassen gives him a disbelieving look, and Alex continues. "Well, yes. Sometimes."
"And was the mission… a success?" The underlying tone in Yassen's words makes him wince.
"Yes," Alex answered. "And certain people are rather annoyed with me at the moment."
"Hence why you've been living on the streets for…" Yassen casts a critical eye over him, "five days now?"
Spot on. Alex nods sharply, once.
"How will you know when MI6 are here to retrieve you?"
Alex holds his hand up, displaying a plain brass ring around his fourth finger. "It'll vibrate when my contact is at the meeting point."
Yassen nods, thinking. "Come with me."
"Where to this time?"
"I have a house on the edge of town, near the airport," Yassen explains.
"I know."
Yassen gives him a look. "You can wait there for MI6 to contact you."
"Okay."
And there is that look again. Maybe Yassen had expected him to put up a fight? But he had learned a long time ago that there was little point in fighting Yassen.